HoND: Les Fleurs du Mal
by princessebee
Summary: Another vintage piece featuring that rascal, Herlikin, wife to Clopin the King of Thunes. In this one, Herlikin goes up against a vicious and haughty Duchess, with devastating consequences. My favourite of these old stories! Warnings for mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

_Yes, another vintage piece from 2001, I believe. For this fiction, the lovely ThreeOranges (that's her profile name) graciously allowed me to use her fabulous OFC, Ginevra, a haughty aristocrat ensnared in an affair with Claude Frollo._

_This has always been one of my most favourites of my HoND stories. The writing is the strongest and the story is good, plus I love some of the character exploration._

_Nonetheless, it is, as all the others are, still very flawed._

**Les Fleurs du Mal**

Avec ses vêtements ondoyants et nacrés,

Même quand elle marche on croirait qu'elle danse,

Comme ces longs serpents que les jongleurs sacrés

Au bout de leurs bâtons agitent en cadence.

Comme le sable morne et l'azur des déserts,

Insensibles tous deux à l'humaine souffrance,

Comme les longs réseaux de la houle des mers,

Elle se développe avec indifférence.

Ses yeux polis sont faits de minéraux charmants,

Et dans cette nature étrange et symbolique

Où l'ange inviolé se mêle au sphinx antique,

Où tout n'est qu'or, acier, lumière et diamants,

Resplendit à jamais, comme un astre inutile,

La froide majesté de la femme stérile.

_Charles Baudelaire, 'Les Fleurs du Mal"_

_-----_

_With clothes undulant, like pearls,_

_Even when she walks one thinks she dances,_

_Like those long snakes that sacred jugglers_

_At the end of their baton, stir in agitated cadence,_

_Like the dismal sand and the blue deserts,_

_Insensible as both are to human suffering,_

_Like the long nets that over sea swells skirt,_

_She unwraps herself, indifferently sloughing._

_Her polished eyes have the charm of minerals,_

_And in her strange nature full of symbols,_

_Where the inviolate angel mingles with the ancient sphinx of sand,_

_Where all is not gold, steel, light and diamonds,_

_Her resplendence, like a useless star, blackens_

—_The icy majesty of the sterile woman._

The title of this story "Les Fleurs du Mal" is taken from the masterwork of the French poet Charles Pierre Baudelaire (1821 - 1867), a series of poems exploring such themes as drug addiction, Satanism, homosexuality, murder, rape, the curious and perverse states of the human mind, the damnation of the soul, the desperation to be found in the lowest hovels of the streets. All these themes, considered shocking in his day, and many considered so today, are expressed in a great beauty of language; reading these works spurs a splendid tremor in my heart, I find myself devouring the words and feasting upon the imagery they conjure up before my eyes, then hungrily moving on to the next poem, eager to discover what will unfold before me...

. I chose the title for this story because it so very well fits my two heroines, Herlikin and Ginevra. Two attractive women, despite their radically different lives, beliefs, and cultures, determined to stake out an independence of some nature in a world dominated by men. Determined to maintain a control, to be beautiful, to be enthralling and powerful.

Determination can lead to ugly acts.

Beneath the surface of the beauty and femineity they both possess, there is a savage intensity which can turn them both to viciousness that can make of them dangerous enemies. These women want to get their way and their whim, and they do not appreciate interference in pursuit of their goals. As Baudelaire shows us in the melody of his words, there can be a splendid beauty and pleasure in violence and perversity, in the brutal intensity of a mind set upon its determination. Hence, The Flowers of Sickness and Evil.

I have Aranxta to thank for introducing me to these poems which I find myself reading again and again, and I strongly urge any of you who have not done so to READ THESE POEMS. They're worth it.

I have also to thank Aranxta for schooling me in the nature of Ginevra de Vincennes and her young page, the deceptive Rossignol. She gave me the essential skeletons to build them up from and much food for thought as I moulded them up in words. Not only that, but she gave me the initial conception for the plot and brainstormed with me on several issues. Thank you Ara, you're an absolute treasure and a wonderful inspiration as well.

I only hope I have done both Ginevra and Rossignol as well as my own Herlikin, and especially the title "Les Fleurs du Mal" the justicethey deserve!


	2. Chapter 2

Herlikin Trouillefou watched her husband perform from the cover of the large oak whose branches fanned out wide and dipped down low, enveloping in her a green darkness, hiding her features from those out in the glaring sunlight beyond. Her fingers twisted the leather cords in her hand, binding them into a pattern she knew well enough to not have to look as it formed; she was perched on the cool, rough stone of a fountain, chewing idly on a mint leaf, sneering at the Parisians who glared at her chosen seat of rest. Her skirts had hiked up to reveal strong calves, and she swung them back forth and grinned at her husband's cavorting from his puppet cart, involved right now in a heated argument with Puppet, or Papuszo, an argument which ended abruptly when the small figure of cloth and wood leapt forward and clutched Clopin's long, Romanic nose between its small hands. The children who watched jumped up and down delightedly, clapping their hands and laughing. Herlikin laughed too at the sight. Despite the fact that a gaje had refused to sell her a bushel of onions, that there were dirty dishes awaiting her at home and several gaje women in starched aprons with dirty necked children clinging to their hands glanced askance at her and her naked calves and shoulders, Herli could never feel sour for long when watching Clopin. Though she'd die then let him know (hence the shade of the tree) few things gave her greater pleasure. Now, Clopin had ducked down low beneath the stage and Puppet had slung a small bundle over his shoulder, announcing he was running away from his cruel tormentor. An abrupt whisper of canvas and the scenery changed to the countryside of France and Puppet began what was undoubtedly to be his long journey. Herli shook her head and tucked the leather cords away into her posoti, rubbing the two stolen onions as she did so. If she was going to head home, now was the time to do it. It could not be guaranteed Clopin would not notice her if his head was above the stage, and she could not bear the teasings she would get when he came home. "You adore me from afar then, kitten? I saw you watch with stars in those pretty glass eyes!"

A carriage rumbled into the town square, and she eyed it with interest as she hopped to her feet, heels bouncing hard against the cobblestones and her dusty skirts falling to her ankles once more. It was certainly a beautiful piece of work, headed by two gleaming black horses with impossibly strong torsos and immaculately decked out coachmen. A shining coat of arms adorned the door, from that distance she could just make out a deep wine red and a dusky blue. There was a pattern on it in white but she could not quite see what it was. She was reluctant to squint, and wrinkle her face (she would swear those two men outside the tavern had been admiring her for some time now) so her curiosity would have to go unsatisfied.

At that second Clopin reappeared again, taking back Prodigal Puppet who had faced the much afeared loup-garou (who the children knew was Clopin in disguise) in terror and had decided to return to his kind benefactor. Herli sighed again and pushed a hand up and through her hair. Perhaps she could cross through the park. Or perhaps...the thought hit her with a rush of blood and she could feel a cat's smile curve her features...she could slip inside the cart and kneel in front of her husband...see how consummate a performer he really was.

The carriage had stopped several feet in front of Clopin's cart, clearly arranged so that whoever was inside it could watch her husband. She couldn't resist a tug of pride at that. The nobility might shun them, but they could not resist his talent. Clopin's story came to a halt and the children clapped eagerly, and several ran forward with whatever small coinage their little persons carried to slip it into the box attached beneath the cart's window. He and Puppet thanked them enthusiastically, Puppet bowing again and again, bending on over himself in a ridiculous fashion, and then the soft red curtains slid shut. Herli prepared to dart across the square before they could open for the next show, but was startled back to the shade again when Clopin burst out the door of his cart to immediately address the surrounding Parisians before heading full pelt into a jaunty song. 'He's seen that lovely fancy carriage.' she thought with a smug grin. 'He's aiming for a little extra today.' She folded her arms and, feeling safe under the tree, watched her husband with open lasciviousness.

Usually, when pandering to the nobility, Clopin performed a rather generous mix of the childish and the lewd, the two quite often the same. Not today. A few highly eloquent witticisms, several love songs - some tender, some satirical. And not once did he "trip" over his long shoes or perform any other kind of slapstick; his body movement at all times was graceful and fluid. 'He's performing for a lady' she realised with an expression close to grimace, touched with amusement. Oh she knew it was an act calculated for a generous reimbursement from the faceless woman within the carriage but still - a year ago and his flirting bothered her not the slightest, nowadays it was somewhat - irksome. Clopin swooped down low into an elegant bow, hat swept from his head, and the surrounding audience clapped admiringly. Now, it was time to pass the hat around. Never look as though you need it, Clopin had often counselled her. Make it look as though it's a treat for THEM to give you their hard earned wages. And he did, with a nonchalant smile that said "if you please". His hat filled quickly as the gaje came forward with faces that wanted to smile, but were reluctant to for a gypsy. Finally Clopin turned with a flourish to the carriage window, and his most charming grin, his eyes flashing beneath the tight magenta mask that crowned his face.

"And you, Madame - " he said winningly, a voice, an attitude that had not failed on a lady yet. "Would you honour me with a contribution?"

Herli thought she heard a slight sniff from inside the carriage. "And what is the contribution in aid of?" the voice was educated, rich, dry - and cold.

Clopin laughed, white teeth gleaming, his eyes never once leaving the woman within the carriage. "It is to keep me in the health which has kept you in thrall."

There was the rustle of rich fabric from within the carriage and a rather brittle laugh. "Then you have severely over estimated my interest. In future you will perhaps have the foresight to collect your monies before donating your talents. It would also serve you to remember your place, gypsy, and learn not to address your betters with quite so much presumption."

Clopin straightened, his belled yellow cowl sliding smoothly over his shoulders, his smile frozen in place. "One wonders then why one's betters respond to such presumption with so much tolerance."

The words the Madame threw from the window had the same quality as small stones pattering against glass. "Corresponding with gutter life is always amusing, at the very least." Herli's hackles were up. The perfect snobbery of the voice, the haughty self-righteousness the words were uttered with - at her husband no less - she wanted for nothing more than to march up to the carriage and toss the woman's doubtlessly very fine velvet hat in her face. But she kept her place, clenching her fists hard in her skirts. Clopin would not appreciate any attempts on her part to fight his battles for him.

Clopin's jaw had tensed, his eyes were rock hard beneath his mask, but he held the woman's gaze, she comfortably sheltered by the cool dark of her carriage. Laying one elegant gloved hand against his chest he said with a mockingly wounded air –

"Ah of course, and it is sometimes difficult for gutter life to comprehend what pleases those who dwell in loftier abodes. But allow me the chance to prove I'm a cut above the rest - I am familiar with a fine piece of work, thoroughly modern and charmingly written - a short piece, a clever piece - a piece that is sure to please Madame. It is entitled the very succinct 'La Belladonna' - perhaps the Madame has heard of it?" Clopin wound up his little speech with a smug grin that bordered on a sneer, his eyes sly and knowing as he leant forward in a caricature of a palace minstrel.

"Lasalle!" the woman's voice was infuriated; one long-fingered white hand now gripped the carriage window, adorned in a jasper ring. "Lasalle, teach this insolent peasant a lesson for daring to address me like one of his street-whores."

Herli's teeth were gritted hard and she was digging her toes into the dirt between the cobblestones to keep herself from leaping forward and throwing a tantrum, but an instant later she'd fallen back in pure outraged shock - the coachman had leapt quickly from his seat and had whipped Clopin hard over the shoulders with his riding crop. Stunned and caught off his guard, Clopin fell heavily onto his knees, and the coachman took the opportunity to bring the crop down twice more. With a panicked shout, Herli burst forth from the shade of the tree and had bounded across the square, flinging herself wholeheartedly onto the coachman and whacking at him angrily with thin wrists. He drew off her husband, at first pushed back by the pure fury of Herli's attack, then, stunned, and continued to retreat as several punches and kicks found their mark. Too surprised to respond at first, he could merely raise his arms to cover his face before remembering he was twice the size of this lunatic gypsy girl, and raised a fist to slam it down on her, just as Herli's mouth opened to find a chunk of flesh to sink her teeth into. Before either could happen, Herli's waist was caught up by two long arms, and she was pulled back, protesting furiously, to the shelter of Clopin's embrace. The crowds had gathered quickly, and were lapping up the free spectacle hungrily. Herli's hair had fallen messily into her eyes, and enraged and gritting her teeth as she was, struggling with her bigger, stronger husband, she was the perfect image of a lunatic, and the coachman eyed her warily as the audience tittered and whispered furiously.

"Calm down!" Clopin hissed at her urgently. "We'll be lucky if we're not arrested as it is."

Gulping back tears of anger, Herli gave up her struggles and slumped uselessly against his lanky form, stamping her foot one last time before falling still and glaring furiously at the coachman who mopped sweat from his brow and continued to eye her with caution.

Clopin's attention, though his arms were tight around his wife, had not left the woman in the carriage, his gaze stony and probing. A sneering laugh which broke from the woman's lips caught Herli's attention also, and she jerked around to face the noblewoman who'd just had her darling whipped.

It was quite a beautiful face that met her gaze, the marble whiteness of her flesh adding to the aloofness and distance of this woman. The eyes were to be envied - so large and richly black were they - but they were marred by their stoniness, made undesirable by their coldness. The hair, pulled into a silky cap over her head, was a glossy black, and would clearly not survive a week being washed only in rainwater, as Herli's powerfully thick mass had to. The woman's clothes were as richly coloured as Herli's own - in deep hues of purple - but were made with the fabrics Herli could only dream of, and decorated with pearls and - they had to be rubies - lavishly. As she'd predicted, the most fashionable of velvet caps was perched on her head. But the stark whiteness of her, the pale lips and hard eyes - she may as well have been a statue dressed in clothes and posed to look alive.

Herli bit back the continuing waves of anger. Lord, WHY didn't Clopin do something, say something? How could he stand back and let this woman order him whipped, humiliated like that? Clopin hated nothing more than to not be in control of every situation, and it was murder to her, to stand docilely there within the confines of his wiry arms.

The woman threw haughty words at them again carelessly. "I should have you and your harlot arrested for this offence. But you've kept me entertained at least, so I'll leave you go with that comfort. And here's my contribution to your continued health."

She nodded at one of her footman who obediently tossed a single sou piece at Clopin's feet, it spinning lazily around on one edge before tinkling to a halt. Herli bared her teeth again and tried to fling herself at the man, but Clopin held her tight and snug against him, his grip giving not an inch. Herli was aware of the woman's haughty gaze pass over her scornfully before making an abrupt gesture her coachman should get up into his place again. Herli's eyes snapped themselves sharply onto the woman, daring her to meet them, but she merely retreated into the shadows of her carriage again. As the coachman resumed his place, gathering the reigns and shaking his head once more, Herli's gaze wandered down over the door of the carriage and the crest which marked it. A red shield, topped with three blue castle pillars, and adorned in the centre with a castle in white, headed by three white crosses. Three gold circles arranged in a triangle rested below the castle - simple and distinctive. Very easy to remember. And Herli burned the memory into her mind as the coachman clicked to the horses and the carriage rattled away, bouncing sharply over the cobblestones.


	3. Chapter 3

A half hour later the two gypsies were safe beneath the streets of Paris in the Court of Miracles, Clopin striding on ahead and Herli trailing behind, sulking furiously. He threw open the flap of their tent, holding it open for her despite his annoyance, then tossed his hat angrily upon his work table before lifting his hands to his head and letting out an exasperated sigh.

"Herli, you have once again astounded me with your idiocy."

She was on the verge of tears and kicked angrily at a rickety wooden chair, sending it thudding against the table and knocking her husband's hat to the ground. "That's the last time I ever defend your honour!" she shrieked back, and flounced to the back of the tent, folding her arms and glaring at him sideways.

He followed her. "Don't you realise what might've happened?? You put your foolish little self in danger over nothing!"

She stamped a foot on the ground. "Nothing?? She insulted you! She, with her silks and velvet masks and coverings, living in a glass palace high up on an unclimbable mountain, and she dared to insult you - - !" The excitement of the day proved too much for the highly strung queen and she burst into tears, hiding her face in thin, little hands. Clopin was immediately sorry and moved quickly to her side, pulling her into an embrace as tight and protective as the one on the street that day.

"Here, now kitten, don't cry." he said soothingly, long hands pulling themselves through her hair. "I'm very flattered you leapt to my defence. But I truly think you should leave such heroics to me in the future."

She'd been determined to resist his comforting, so ungrateful had his response to her bravery been, but after an outburst she liked nothing better than to have his large, warm hands soothing her, and his breath tickling her cheek. She let her arms break from their fold and turned to him, still sniffling somewhat pitifully while he looked down at her with a tender amusement. "But I like to be a hero."

He grinned. "You do a marvellous job, but honestly - attacking nobility - even the servants of nobility? Herli, that's flirting with the gallows."

She rested her cheek in the palm of his hand, shrugging with an obstinate pout. "I don't see how you could stand there and let it happen - that vicious, nasty, spiteful bitch."

He laughed at her final words and she felt her shoulders untense somewhat, grinning back up at him, before wrapping her arms around his neck. "She probably did it only because you stirred something in her loins she'd rather not be stirred by a dirty, brown-skinned gypsy." she said emphatically. He shook his head briskly.

"I'm not sure if that's flattery or not - at any rate, kitten, you needn't think I liked standing there and taking a beating across the shoulders. But to do something - out there, in the open of broad daylight with not a useful weapon to my name apart from a quick wit? Suicide!"

She pulled down on his neck. "You could've knocked that fat coachman to the stones."

"Oh yes, and be arrested the next time I went out performing. I'm not exactly the every-man, little one."

Still she pouted and he kissed it away gently. "And what would happen to you and the children should anything happen to me?"

Her eyes were wet as she blinked them at him contritely, and a second later she murmured an apology. He squeezed her tight. "Of course you are forgiven - the mere fact that you were watching my performance is more than enough to satisfy me." he grinned down at her triumphantly and she grimaced and stamped her foot. The very thing she had tried to avoid and now look! Clopin held her back against his forearms, eyes twinkling merrily. "So what part did you enjoy the most, kitten, my 'child's entertainment that no grown person could bear'?"

"Bah! I was merely passing by!"

"Ooh of course!" he intoned knowingly as she tried to push his hands away and he clung firmly to her waist. "Merely going about your duty when lo! By pure coincidence your adored husband should just happen to be in the town square performing, and of course you stopped to watch for you could not help but do otherwise, so entrancing do you find the simple sound of my voice!" He was laughing, and with a resinated air, she gave in to the mood and let her struggles pull them both down on the bed.

"I was watching Puppet!" she cried out insistently, laughing as he began to nuzzle her in earnest, before leaping back with a look of feigned shock on his long features. Before he could say a word however, Puppet appeared, perched jauntily on one of his glove-sheathed hands. "Here! I told you!" the little miniature's voice was shrill in its triumph. "All these years and I am the one she truly loves!"

"Papuszo!" Herli flung herself onto the little puppet and planted kiss after kiss on his small painted mouth while Clopin's mouth dropped open in outrage. He pushed his wife away then rounded on his wooden look-alike, shaking one long finger furiously. "You then! You would let my wife make me a cuckold?"

"She had no protests! On the contrary, she very much enjoys the feel of a well-formed piece of wood!"

Scandalised, Herlikin leapt forward with a gasp, putting a hand over Puppet's mouth, before turning to her husband's amused shout with a sharp slap over his shoulders. He gasped out loud and she remembered too late the events of earlier, kissing his shoulders apologetically. "Here, you'd better take this off." she said, her voice much subdued, tugging gently at his parti-coloured tunic.

"You just want an excuse to get me undressed." he proclaimed, wincing, but obediently raising his arms above his head and let Herli pull his tunic off. The welts had risen, red and angry looking, but no flesh had been broken. Herli traced a finger along them gently, but even that was enough for a hiss to escape between Clopin's teeth. She sniffled and climbed onto his lap, tears ready to break once more as he stroked her hair gently with slight confusion.

"Whets wrong, little one?" he asked softly, and she clung to his arms in frustration.

"I hate it that she can get away with it, that she could do that and no one says a word against it!" she cried. "You should've kicked that coachman to Kingdom Come!"

He chuckled wryly and kissed her forehead. "The wounds will heal, Herli. So will my pride."

"It's not good enough!"

He shrugged, a taunt muscle in his cheek betraying any nonchalance he assumed. "It will have to be."

"You're a king!"

"Of beggars and outcasts, scoundrels and whores."

"Of the Rom, people of honour and decency and kindness!"

"Not in their eyes."

There was silence between the two as she mulled over these words, and he ran a finger down her cheek, letting go of her with one arm only long enough to pull his mask off, and then wrapping it around her again. She pouted. "I hate them."

He sighed. "I'm not overly fond of them myself, Herli, my lune." he caught her face up between both hands and made her look into his eyes. "But we shouldn't let their spite dominate our world, kitten. You are mine and I am yours and right now, that's all we should be concerned about."

She hadn't finished sulking, but his strong fingers rubbing the back of her neck soon distracted her attention and she leant up to kiss him. Several minutes later and he was tugging her dress loose, lowering her to the bed then jumping up in astonishment as the stolen onions rolled from her posoti. Coming as they did - seemingly from between her legs - he was a trifle bemused. "Is there something you're not telling me, Herli?"

She laughed out loud on the expression on his face, and momentarily forgot the noblewoman and her marble eyes.

-----

Meanwhile the noblewoman with the marble eyes had forgotten her brief encounter with the gypsy royalty, and was reclining restlessly on a lounge embroidered lavishly in gold thread. Against the opulence of her dress and with the backdrop of marble tables, gold candlesticks and velvet draperies the lounge was made quite ridiculous. Each individual item when taken out of this room was a work of pure art, craftsmanship stunning to behold. But carelessly lumped together as they had been and the result was garish. Perhaps it was this optical offence that made the noblewoman fidget where she sat, though the pageboy by her chair sang as sweetly as any choirboy. The noblewoman herself had impeccable taste, but the design of this room had not been at her discretion. Nor was the dress she wore one she normally would. But it had been chosen to antagonise one who favoured simplicity of dress as a reflection of humility of mind. She had not achieved her desired result and was in a venomous mood consequently. Perhaps that was why she'd chosen to antagonise a simple peasant performer - as he appeared to her - a half hour earlier. Or perhaps it had been the way that peasant's eyes had fixed themselves upon her, dark and deep, and sending a shudder down her neck. If the noblewoman could blush, surely that peasant's gaze would have turned her cheeks scarlet.

Her favoured glass of warm red wine had not been awaiting her on the sideboard when she returned to these rooms, and after an icy glare which had left her maidservant bereft of an explanation had dismissed the girl immediately, commanding the footman to turn her things out with her. The girl, who had dissolved into tears, hiding her face in raw-red hands pleaded ineffectually for her position back, supporting as she was two younger siblings who'd feel the winter months hard when they came about. The tears were wasted; the noblewoman merely allowed a slight sneer of disgust that such a lack of dignity should be in display before her, the girl in her simple smock of blue and dirty white was escorted out, and the footman swept the floor after her. The noblewoman settled back against the cushions, the desired wine in fine cut crystal cradled between her elegant hands, and gazed discontentedly into the drink's depths.

The noblewoman was the Vicomtesse Ginevra de Vincennes, renowned among her caste for her sharp eyes, and sharper tongue. The women who moved in her circle teetered at the edge, fearful of saying what might earn them a verbal scalding, her servants threw themselves into disarray trying to keep things in order for her, and so keep their positions secure. Her own husband avoided her wherever possible, allowing the smaller chateau in the Bois de Vincennes to be at her disposal, a situation she did not find disagreeable. Despite the mercilessness of wit, the Vicomtesse was both a beautiful woman and a charming one, and infuriated as she had been by her arranged marriage, had not found herself at a loss for male companionship; she found her husband to be both a weak man, and an unstimulating one and had had no quibbles over breaking the wedding vows.

At thirty seven, lack of exposure to sunlight and near obsessive skin care left her free from wrinkles. Her averseness to childbearing meant her figure was still that of a young woman, and as yet no grey had touched her head, although she had a beautician on hand always who knew how to rid oneself of such markings.

She leapt to her feet sharply, her fine skirts rustling angrily about her and swept on and into the next room, a beautiful dressing chamber filled from head to foot with elaborately embroidered tunics, fine hosiery, fur lined capes and beautifully moulded shoes. All the trappings of a gentleman. Ginevra had paid a rare visit to her husband's home, the great Chateau de Vincennes, in accordance to a meeting they had arranged. Henri was late. Ginevra was furious. She sat herself down before the marble topped vanity, the great gilded mirrors stretching up before her and turned her head slowly from side to side, her eyes widening to discern any flaws there. Satisfied there were none, she carefully unpinned the velvet cap from her head and looked intently down her parting where her hair was pulled sharply down to either side of her head, and fastened in an elaborate plaited bun at the nape of her neck.

She caught her own eye in the reflection and paused, the tautness of her shoulders relaxing in a sigh as she mulled over the events of that day.

She and Claude had not spoken in the last week, not since their last - difference of opinion - and she had felt the lack of companionship sharply. She had wanted Felicio Coleccico arrested on a minor offence - inebriated behaviour on the streets - and had been refused. She knew of the Sicilian's exploits, Lasalle had told her of his cavortings these last three nights, and of the curses he had railed upon her head in as many taverns as would admit his drunken gait. She did not care for how long he was put away, so long as it was another blotch upon his once shining, golden head. Anything that would make life just that touch more difficult for him. But Claude had merely glided silkily to her side, one smooth, cold hand caressing her white cheek and explained that Coleccico had remained within a tavern at all time, that no one had come forth to complain, that he had, therefore, absolutely no reason to arrest the down-on-his-luck poet. She'd wrenched away from his touch with eyes that flashed venomously, before pointing out that lack of evidence never prevented Claude from arresting his 'beloved gypsies'. He'd frozen, as purely lined and still as a statue, and then in an icy voice had explained as one would to a child that as all gypsies were inherently evil one might be sure that any crime they were accused of had surely been committed, perhaps if not at that time, then certainly at a time in the past, or one still to come. It had been a flawed argument, as usual, though he was convinced otherwise, and she'd whirled on her heel and stormed out of the Palace of Justice, returning immediately to her chateau. Claude would bend the rules for his pet hatred, but not for an obnoxious, cowardly poet who'd been caught out in his game. Not to mention that he found the entire fiasco - amusing. She could see it in the barely discernible curve of his mouth, the mocking glint of his eye whenever he caught her glancing at her reflection, not to mention the way his mouth slid over the nickname "Belladonna". It infuriated her, yet at the same time she was loathe to forget how, at the outset, he had mused "Belladonna - an apt name indeed."

For the last week there had been no contact between the two, and her rage had grown steadily at his stubbornness, his refusal to send her an apology, his total lack of communication. Finally, she had dressed today, provocatively in finery to challenge his ascetic tastes, and had arrived at the Palace unannounced. He had greeted her with flawless civility, welcomed her amicably and with a triumphant gleam in his eye. They had sat, sipped wine, and not spoken. She was unsure exactly what she had expected, but she was not being satisfied, whatever it was. Finally, she had broken the silence.

"Well?" she'd demanded of him.

He'd raised an aristocratic eyebrow, glancing at her over the rim of his glass. "Well, what?"

"About Coleccico?"

With a sharp tinkle he'd replaced his glass upon the table and steepled his hands. "Are you still tormenting yourself over that Sicilian poet? Really, Ginevra, I'd of thought a woman of your intelligence would have left such trivial matters behind her by now."

She left the meeting unsatisfied.

A hesitant tap at the door of the dressing chamber distracted her out of her reverie, and knotting her fine black brows together, staring at her reflection in a deadly manner, she let out a slow, and impatient "What?"

The maid she'd sent for to replace the other until another could be appointed to the position crept in, a voluminous dress cradled carefully in her arms, peeking meekly at the Vicomtesse from under the lace ruffle on her cap.

"Please, Vicomtesse, I've brought the things you asked for."

The Vicomtesse rose swiftly, an irritated sigh escaping her lips. The young maid rushed quickly to help her out of the dress she was wearing and into the new one she'd brought, a beautiful deep purple silk one, worked all over in darker purple silk thread in a charming pattern of flowers. It was not so grand as the one she had worn, but there were few dressmakers of high-fashion who could find its equal in line, colour and pattern to flatter the Vicomtesse. A net of pearls was fastened over her hair, and straightening the jasper ring on her finger, the Victomesse swept masterfully past the girl, who drew back hastily, and on into the drawing room. She stopped upon entering and glared at the unoccupied chairs.

"My husband is not here yet?" she snapped and the manservant at the door jumped, and raised his brocaded shoulders gently.

"The Vicomte has not arrived, Vicomtesse, no."

Lip curling, eyes narrowing, she gathered up her skirts and made for the door.

"Go down and tell Lasalle to get the coach ready." she snapped at one of the menservants who bowed and ran out swiftly to obey, and then turned to the other.

"You can tell the doddering old fool I tolerated his hideous decor for as long as I was able; if he wishes to see me, he can come to my chateau." she turned to walk out, then could not resist throwing spitefully over her shoulder "Like all the others."

As the door snapped shut behind her the manservant relaxed visibly, shrinking at least three inches, and mopped his brow in relief.

Lasalle the coachman, a stocky, red faced and highly pompous gentleman of forty with bow legs, had hastened to the Vicomtesse's bidding and had the door of her carriage open and waiting as she swept out the wide front doors of the Chateau de Vincennes, her purple skirts washing silkily around her ankles, her forehead still creased with a venomous scowl. Used to the Vicomtesse's dangerous moods, he merely offered her a callous, but well scrubbed hand, into which she silently slipped her own soft, white one, and assisted her and her skirts into the carriage. Bowing politely and daring to offer a tight smile he said with an attempt at charm -

"Will the Vicomtesse be going directly home?"

She stared out into the forest beyond him morosely. "Where else is there to go?" she muttered.

He bowed slightly again, despite his best attempts to look dignified the gesture came across as fawning, the expression on his face sycophantic.

"Perhaps the Vicomtesse would care for a brief drive around Paris?"

A slight frown flickered over her features, and Lasalle prepared to beat a hasty retreat, but a second later she agreed.

"Very well then."

"We will, of course, avoid the Town Square."

Another frown, and Lasalle, used as he was to her moods, wondered if it would simply be better to hold his tongue; it was so much less stressful.

"Why would we do that, Lasalle?"

Adopting an attitude of surprise Lasalle countered "Why, so the Vicomtesse does not run the risk of being accosted once more by the gypsy vermin."

The gypsies - she had forgotten them. With a sneering smile, the Vicomtesse's flickered from the murky green of the forest to Lasalle's watery blue ones. "If I remember correctly, Lasalle, it was you who was accosted."

Lasalle's red face grew even redder, but his attitude of subservience did not change. "For the Vicomtesse's honour, I would suffer the same again." he lowered his eyes.

The sneer on her face grew. She saw directly through him, though he probably fancied himself very believable. As his eyes rose up once again, she changed the sneer into a smile and nodded at him. "Let's go, Lasalle."

He hoisted himself quickly into the driver's seat and clicked to the horses who started off immediately at a brisk pace.

The Vicomtesse gazed at her reflection in the brilliant red of the ring she wore and remembered the gypsy peasant's fine long legs and how gracefully they moved. But then she remembered the dark brown of his skin, the fact that he'd been born in the gutters and had only sunk lower with time and a shudder of revulsion shook her. Such a pity the little harlot had appeared out of nowhere, like the witch she probably was, and stopped the beating the peasant had undoubtedly earned many times over. The Vicomtesse felt another shudder pass through her at the memory of the girl, tiny and vibrant, baring her teeth like a rabid dog. She should've had the two arrested, but at the time it had amused her to do otherwise. Still, being gypsies, Claude would hardly object to their arrest at some future date - ah Claude! Settled in the midst of her velvet cushions, enveloped in the darkness of her carriage and not glancing once out the windows of her carriage at the beautiful cacophony of colours and shapes in the countryside surrounding her, Ginevra grimaced and felt the clutch of loneliness and boredom around her heart.


	4. Chapter 4

Clopin called for a top up of his tankard, not once taking his eyes off the swinging hips of the slender, fair haired woman who weaved her way in and out of the crowded tables, stacking up glasses and mugs in her lithe young arms. Cosette had become quite a woman indeed. He could hardly recognise the pale, shy young girl in the shapely, smiling woman who moved confidently amongst the crowds and laughed at the men's good-natured jests. But she was sweet, still. Of all that had changed, that had not. Despite Herli's best efforts. Clopin grinned to himself and then his eyes lit up as Pacquette filled his mug with red wine, and she graced him with a smile when he slapped a coin down. He turned back to his companions, one elbow up on the bar, lanky form leaning gracefully against it.

"What fool doctors say a life lived in drink is bad for one? Our young barmaid seems to be suffering none for it!" he informed them cheerfully with a jerk of his head in Cosette's direction. His friends peered over his shoulder and laughed rum-hazed amusement mingled with appreciation. Milosh winked at him conspiratorially.

"An old friend of yours, isn't she, Clopin?"

"A very old friend." Clopin returned off-handedly, turning back to his drink. "Herli and I have known her for years." He could never abide it when they insinuated that just because he looked he was going to touch. Sometimes he almost regretted his wild youth, the pursuits of which had led Herli to refer to him teasingly as 'Gypsy Lover Extraordinaire!'

Clopin grinned again. Well, no, he didn't really.

A small hand clapped over the rim of his glass before his lips could meet it, beringed and softer than it probably should be. Without raising his eyes, Clopin kissed the limb warmly, reaching up with his other hand to grasp the wrist attached to it with gentle firmness, sliding his fingers up to meet her elbow, then back down again. Then he raised his head to smile at his wife who was flushed from the chivalrous greeting, and hiding it behind a mask of nonchalant eyes.

"Hungry, my one and only?"

His smile became wolfish. "For you, Madame, I am never satiated."

She hid a grin behind a grimace and slapped him lightly. "I meant for your supper."

He nodded and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, then turned back to his companions. "I'll be down presently."

"It's hot now." she said with a touch of impatience. He shot a glance back at her.

"It's not all that is. I said I'll be down presently." He turned back to his friends and began telling an animated story, spreading his arms wide without spilling a drop from his tankard, the nearby fire catching flecks of gold in his hair.

Herli pursed her lips and twitched her skirts. He was always disobedient when he was with his friends! Or when he didn't want to do what she wanted him to! She ought to let his supper dry out and get cold! But when she tugged on his tunic and he turned back to her with an affectionate smile instead of the glimmer of irritation most men greeted their wives with when distracted from their fellows, she knew she wouldn't.

"Alright, I'll keep it warm for you." she muttered. "But don't be too long and too drunk."

"Thankyou, kitten." He smiled and wrapped long arms around her, bending his head down for a warm kiss while his friends hooted behind him. They both ignored them.

"Keep yourself warm too." he whispered to her as she wound fingers in his cowl and giggled.

"Such a kiss reveals nothing! Who wields the whip in your household, Clopin?" Christophe shouted merrily with a bottle held aloft in one of his rough hands.

"I do, of course!" the two answered at once. Herli narrowed her eyes at Clopin while he gave her an amused look of incredulity. The men continued to laugh and Clopin smacked her lightly, easing away. "Go on now, my little wife." he said with emphasis on the little. "Keep your husband's dinner warm for him. I'll be home at my leisure." his eyes twinkled as she glowered at him for this dig then turned with a final twitch of the skirts. The rom had not been the only ones with eyes on the little exchange. A group of students had seated themselves at the table by the window, and now one of them leered drunkenly over his bottle and remarked loudly to the other. "I wouldn't mind a whore like that to call my own."

Herl froze in her passage to the door and flushed a bright red from the roots of her to the base of her neck, fingers twisting in her skirts, uncertain what to do in front of so many who'd heard the offensive remark. She didn't need to make a decision. Within a second Clopin had slammed down his tankard and leapt to the youth's chair, wrenching him out of it by the scruff of his neck.

"What did you call my wife?" he demanded savagely. The eyes of the student widened, vision blurred by the alcohol and nerves sent scattering by the angry gypsy's dark skin and fierce eyes, not to mention the dagger that dangled from his belt.

"A jest! A mere jest!" He croaked out, as his fellows alternatively snickered into their drinks over the misfortune of their companion or glanced warily at the other gypsies who watched silently from the fireplace, wondering if they should aid their friend.

"Is that so?" Clopin sneered. "Why then, I have a jest of my own to share - "

"Here now!" Pacquette's voice was harsh and loud, spurred on as it was by the images of broken chairs and bottles. "Take your fights outside if you must have them!"

Clopin needed no further encouragement. He jerked his head to the side as though inviting the youth, and then hauled him out swiftly, ignoring the stares of the other patrons. Herli paused only a second, before gathering up her skirts and hurrying out after them. Christophe and Jean had reached for the lyre and flute respectively and began a lively tune upon them, drawing the attention away from the slammed door and Milosh, Erik and Paolo drew chairs up to the student's table, entering immediately into conversation with the youths who looked about them in a bewildered fashion. No matter the insult to his wife, Clopin was still a gypsy. Better there were no witnesses to what went on.

-----

Outside Herli clapped her hands in malicious glee as Clopin brought another punch down on the student's face, loosening his grip on his tunic enough so that the youth sagged limply to his knees, weakly lifting his hands in a plead for Clopin to stop the assault. A hard fist in the gut later and Clopin complied, letting go of the student who fell with a groan to the cobblestones. He turned to Herli with a bow, both arms outstretched, then laughed as she flung herself into his arms.

"My hero!" she beamed, laying kisses on his cheeks. He mopped sweat from his brow and nodded down to the youth's bruised and bloodied face, just barely visible in the dim orange light filtering through the shutters of the tavern window.

"Watch your mouth in future." he advised him, and then wrapped an arm around his wife to lead her home. She smiled up at him in admiration, flattered by his protection, and he grinned back and urged her a little closer. The night was warm for autumn, but very clear and quiet, the streets near to empty, the surrounding buildings painted blue by the dark sky. He was amused by the little looks she kept giving him, illuminated by the moonlight, and chucked her under the chin.

"You who are so concerned about keeping my ego in check would do better to keep the adoration from your eyes. I've done as much for you on numerous occasions, and probably numerous occasions yet to come!"

She shrugged and smiled. "But I love it when you do! Defending my honour!"

He drew up short and pulled her around so she was facing him, putting his other arm about her waist. "I told you such heroics were better left to me. Our unconscious friend back there will l be feeling that for a month. The "fat coachman", as you refer to him, has probably already forgotten this afternoon's altercation."

The mention of the man who'd done injury to her husband brought a scowl to Herli's face. "It was the thought that counted, ungrateful brute!" He laughed.

"Such fortune is mine to have a wife who thinks of honour before safety!"

She flushed angrily and he placed a gloved hand quickly on her mouth before she could continue with a tirade.

"I'm teasing you, little one. You were very brave. Foolish, but brave."

She bit her lip. "Well Clopin my big strong husband, you who are so much wiser and sensible than I, the next time the nobility sees fit their servants should shove me to one side and throw my purchases in the gutter I will know it is for safety's sake you don't leap to my aid." So saying she twisted from his grip and continued huffily down their path.

"Oh, come now, I didn't mean it that way!" Clopin called after her in exasperation, then labelling himself Herli's favourite taunt of 'Big Nosed Fool', he bounded after her, dropping his hat playfully on her head though she wrenched it off and flung it to the sharp stones beneath them. He caught up one of her hands and knelt before her.

"Herli, you're entirely too sensitive. No one - nobleman, peasant or truant could so much as brush your skirts without an explanation demanded for it by me. You know that. You're being silly."

She paused, uncertain whether to take offence at being called silly or to acknowledge that she was. Finally she stepped forward and ran a finger over her husband's aching shoulders. He grimaced. "I wanted to hurt him." she told Clopin, her voice bounding softly off the close walls of the alley they'd stopped in. "Like you wanted to hurt that boy back there. It is not something for you to ridicule or scold, if you would do the same as you claim."

He stood up and glanced sharply into one of the low shadows of the alley from whence a slight scuffle emitted. A second later and a scrawny, grey cat separated itself from the darkness and slid over the cobblestones and out of the alley. Clopin relaxed again and turned back to Herli, shrugging. "As one who would do the same as he claims, it is my right to worry what your hot little head will lead you to do next. And as I am a man, it's simply easier for me to get away with these things. More seemly too." A grin quirked one side of his mouth and she returned it, tapping a hand against his brown cheek.

"The 'I am a man, and you are a woman' argument again, my one and only? In matters of the heart such arguments become moot."

"At least not for want of trying," he put his arms around her waist again. "And argued in the hope it might lead you to be more thoughtful in your actions, so you see it all comes down to protecting you in the end."

"Hummmm." she leaned back in his arms, resting her hands in front of her with a cat's smile on her lips. "Though I still think that coachman was winded, if nothing else."

He threw back his head and laughed out loud at that. "Alright, Herli, alright. I am sure he sits by his fire nursing his aching sides and rueing the day he attacked the husband of the most ferocious lunatic witch in Paris!"

"And well he should!" she wriggled out of his arms again, but this time to retrieve his hat from the cold, mossy stones, brushing it off briskly and reaching up to replace it on his head. Tossing it down had been a daring thing to do; the hat was an old favourite and was considered off-limits in most situations, such treatment of it usually led to a gentle cuff. So Clopin truly was flattered by her heroic efforts of the day. She tipped his head down to hers and kissed the tip of his nose, her fingertips running into his silky black hair.

They resumed their walking, hand in hand, a little quicker now as the night was growing later. For several minutes they walked in silence, each wrapped up in their private musings - Clopin pondering the benefits both financial and personal of a puppet in the noblewoman's likeness, cursed for her sins as Lilith was - by giving birth to an endless stream of deformed children. Herli's thoughts were of not unsimilar nature and Clopin was shaken out of his reverie by her musing out loud -

"Belladonna."

"Mmm, whats that?" He asked her in a distracted voice.

"She was very angry when you made reference to that poem."

"Who was?"

By his side Herli grimaced and squeezed his hand. "The bitch in the carriage."

"Oh her. Oh yes she certainly was." he chuckled and scratched his chin.

"And why was she so angered by what most would consider a compliment?"

Again Clopin chuckled quietly. "Herli, when you're not isolated within the Court, you're isolated within your own miniature world. Wheras I, Clopin the Gypsy King - "

"Of Fools" she broke in rudely. He untangled his hand from hers and whacked her rear before placing his hand on her shoulder and drawing her close to him.

"Shush, little girl. You want Papa Clopin to tell you the story or not?" Before she made answer to that he continued. "As I was saying, as the Sovereign Leader of the Rom and all our kind, it is my business to know who poses the most threat to us. The vision of - erm - loveliness we beheld in that fine vehicle this afternoon was none other than the Vicomtesse Ginevra de Vincennes."

He paused and waited. Herli remained silent, reaching up with her hand to clasp his where it dangled over her bosom. After an exaggerated sigh he continued.

"The good Vicomtesse hails from Italy - "

"Ooh" Herli said with a wrinkled nose and Clopin nodded.

"Ooh indeed. So you see, not only is she a member of the nobility, she's an Italian. And you well know what the Italians think of all those who are not Italian. Everyone under the French sun is an insufferable idiot to her, and forced as she was into a marriage not of her choosing - "

"A pain I know only too well!" she interrupted again with a mischievous grin and a finger poked into his ribs.

"Ha. I'll resist giving in to hilarity, lest I choke. Forced as she was into this marriage, and living in a country whose collective intellect she believes is inferior to her own, the Vicomtesse has wasted no time in spreading her name about the countryside, in more ways than one. To put it bluntly, if I may upon your delicate ears, the Vicomtesse is a slut."

Herli's mouth twisted in amusement but she pointed her nose in the air and nodded.

"Hmmm. Her very face seemed to scream the fact. Do go on."

Thoroughly enjoying himself Clopin was only too happy to. "The Vicomtesse, so I have heard, is a woman of no little talent - oh yes within the bedchamber though I speak not of that now - but apparently she is a rather credible writer. There have been several who've felt the harsh side of her tongue - no Herli stop looking at me that way, I make no double entendres - and to combine that with her habit of cuckolding, there have been several only too glad to make a fool of her where they can. Not a month ago I came across a young Sicilian poet, thrown from his home, out of work, disgraced and beyond reprieve, who'd drunk the last of his coin away and who was only too glad to enlighten myself, and anyone else within hearing, of the circumstances leading to his plight. It seems the young fool had decided to be cleverer than he was, and wrote a rather venomous little poem about our dear friend the Vicomtesse, ironically titled "La Belladonna", and even more cleverly had neglected to sign his name upon it, although she later uncovered his identity and ruined him. The Vicomtesse was giggled at behind fans, thrown sidewards glances at parties and sneered about over the evening port, and on the whole she took the entire incident rather badly."

"And so this afternoon you could not resist the opportunity to hit her where it hurts as she did to you?" Herli jangled the pouch of coins which hung from his belt. He grinned down at her.

"Hands off. I know your ways, kitten. But yes - I couldn't resist. It must be deliciously nasty for her to know that even peasants and gypsy vermin are laughing at her from our places in the gutter."

Herli rested her head against her husband's chest and looked up at the moon, hazed by the thick black smoke billowing from the chimney of the small house marking the end of this street, and their journey. "And why is it important for you to know about this?" Her voice was lowered now, as his was when he continued.

"Because the Vicomtesse is a noblewoman's noblewoman. To her, such people as we are less than people - we are alternatively work-animals or vermin. Our people tend mainly to fall into the latter category. She has no sympathy for us, but she has a great deal of sympathy for Claude Frollo."

Herli's eyes widened in interest as the two drew to a halt, the street's end quiet and bathed in darkness, the moon, now almost entirely blocked by a shingled roof, lending only a small sliver of silver along moss-grown cobblestones, and a rusty manhole cover. Clopin drew away from Herli, one arm nonchalantly scratching his neck while his eyes peered sharply into all corners and shadows. Satisfied finally, he knelt and worked his fingers under the rim of the manhole, it lifting more smoothly and silently that its appearance would suggest.

"The rumours fly, though nothing is proven of course, that our honourable Minister Frollo and the equally honourable Vicomtesse de Vincennes have long been highly intimate acquaintances." Clopin lowered his slender form into the hole, strong acrobatic legs clutching the uppermost rungs of a ladder leaning down, one hand outstretched to his wife who came forward to take it. "A woman such as she - unscrupulous, cruel and convinced of her own superiority - under the influence of a man such as Frollo - is potentially a very bad enemy."

Herlikin did not answer, merely allowed her husband to assist her down, mulling quietly and with narrowed eye over the information given to her. Clopin caught the look, a strange mingled one of thoughtfulness and cunning in the half light before he closed the manhole cover and they were emersed in darkness. A second later flint was struck, having magically appeared on his person, as did the torch he lit and held aloft to smile at his wife. The strange expression was gone, she was smiling warmly at him and with eyes that held no thoughts of noblewomen, whips or upstart students, and held out a hand he took and pressed to his lips.

"Come on now, you're doubtlessly hungry and the children will be running wild with Tante Marie more than half lost her patience by now."

He chuckled with her and the two set off, arm in arm and guided by the warm light of the torch, through the catacombs to their underground home.

-----

Another week passed and the Autumn rains set in, washing the green from the leaves leaving behind rich reds, browns and gold. Parisians went about their tasks as quickly as possible, eager to get out of the sharpness of the sleeting rain, and Paris was washed over with a grey film, garnished in the leaves which drifted from the trees.

Ginevra de Vincennes watched the rain from behind leaded glass, cushioned snugly between velvet and brocade on a window seat in her Chateau. Her face was a smooth piece of silk, devoid of emotion, perfect and rich, flowing smoothly into the burgundy of her dress and breaking with the tiny ruffle of petticoat peeking out over her pointed slippers. Inside, the Vicomtesse's heart was a pounding drum, relentlessly beating blood into every corner of her being, making her very fingertips tingle with agitation. Another week. Another week and no word from that insufferable hypocrite of a judge, secure and assured behind those bleak stone walls built up around him like a fortress. A scowl erupted in her eyes and her mouth tightened. If she could have him here, here on her property, she could have him defenceless. Away from walls robed in ministerial black, twisting staircases like the passages from blessing to damnation, and looming fireplaces throwing out light to engulf the large, bare rooms in an unholy warmth - away from that and she could persuade him as she wanted, have him fulfil her desires - first the physical, then the personal.

Without realising it one of her tapering hands had left the folds of her skirts and was tracing its way lightly down the window, marking the path of the raindrops which had preceded it. She detested Autumn rain! Beating the leaves to the pavements below, sifting the dirt into mud, the whole mess mixed into an unsightly soup congesting the spaces in between the slimy flagstones which quickly grew moss-slicked in this weather. It confined her within doors also, she dared not set a foot outside lest a dress become water-spotted or her hair, that coiling mass of glory, thrown in disarray. The elements were bad for one's complexion; she contemplated silently, her eyes now focused on the faint reflection of herself, thrown upon the glass by the oil lamp burning brightly in her drawing room. Until the rain and wind stopped she could only drift from room to room, as a goldfish does within its bowl, comforted perhaps with the indulgent surroundings of weed and pebbles and bright coloured stones, but never able to go further than its glass walls.

Choking back a sigh of impatience she rose to her feet and wandered away from the large, double windows, set back in the small marble-floored enclave that could be shut off from the rest of the room by two heavy, red-velvet draperies, today fastened back by plaited gold thread. The enclave was washed in the same dull grey light as the world outside, but the drawing room was vibrant with the rich hues of reds and purples, highlighted with gold and the warm orange of the brilliant oil lamps placed strategically around the room. The Vicomtesse's heels sank silently into the snow of the carpet as she moved to the centre of the room, the rustling of her skirts signalling her approach to the youth who sat over paper and quill, an ink stand by his elbow. He did not raise his head from his work, but straightened his shoulders, a dimple appearing in one cheek, betraying a hidden smile. The Vicomtesse's reflection appeared beside his own, in perfect grey and white in the black or the marble-topped table, and a second later her slender hand, marked by the jasper ring on its third finger, was playing over his thick golden locks in a gentleness that seemed foreign to her limbs.

"My Rossignol, you have been hard at work?"

The boy nodded, lifting his head finally so that the Vicomtesse might see the carefully formed Latin, painstakingly written in beautiful, curling letters. Ginevra's sharp black eyes swept over the words discerningly, and then finally nodded, a smile breaking the purity of her face, the polished nails of her fingers leaving tracks in the boy's silky hair.

"Very good. Excellent, Rossignol." The youth turned to her, kissing the hand she offered him in silent adoration, the dimples in his cherubic cheeks playing in and out as he smiled and blinked glass-blue eyes proudly over his work. She settled back on her settee, her voluminous brocaded skirts puffing out behind the boy's head and nodded to him with a dull warm spark in the black stones of her eyes. A white hand, sparkling with rings, gestured to the quill and ink.

"You know your letters well. Copy them now, in Italian, my Rossignol, my golden cherub."

The two spoke only Italian between them, isolating them further within the world they seemed to share. Rossignol, a pageboy of twelve with a face to rival that of one of the cherubs dancing in the stained glass of the Cathedral windows, was the Vicomtesse's most cherished indulgence. Inspiring not so much maternal feelings as ones of ultimate control within her, Ginevra doted on the boy in an almost alarming fashion. Even for a pageboy he was richly dressed, overfed and trusted completely. His duties as a page remained the same; he ran errands and delivered messages, attended his mistress and sang to her, looked upon her with a worshipfulness that was not assumed and swore loyalty. But it went further. It was a rare occasion that did not find Rossignol at the Vicomtesse's elbow, rarer she should have a secret he did not share. Few of Rossignol's own material desires went unfulfilled, the Vicomtesse herself had taken on the task of educating him as fully as her own brilliant mind was able, to all intents and purposes, Rossignol filled the role of a spoilt child. Or perhaps a spoilt pet would be a more apt description. It was indeed no accident that the intricate embroidery covering the seat of the stool he perched on matched that of the Vicomtesse's settee, or that the burgundy of his tunic was the same shade as Ginevra's skirts.

Rossignol, for his part, was utterly devoted to the Vicomtesse - so long as his position as the apple of her eye was not threatened. The Vicomtesse did not choose her bedfellows for love; she detested the company of women and found both children and animals to be on the same level - a cursed nuisance. Rossignol was fairly secure in his place, but so complete was his adoration that she had merely to laugh too long at a lover's jest and an emerald light would flicker in those angelic blue eyes. Or perhaps if she should brood over one's absence too much...

Rossignol dared a glance over his gold-embroidered shoulder at his mistress, she glaring stonily forward, paying not a jot of attention to the way he drew the quill up and down, across and back to the inkstand the way she usually did, with the merest curve of a smile on her white lips. No, now she was scowling furiously, long white fingers tapping impatiently on her skirts, ignoring Rossignol completely. He pouted, and turned back to his work, his pink lower lip protruding sulkily over the curve of his chin. He knew who she was thinking about, and dared further to wriggle his shoulders in an irritated fashion, the continued with his letters. Personally, he detested the Minister of Justice, he captured the Vicomtesse's attention for indefinite lengths of time, and she was subservient to him in a way that was violently irksome. Rossignol would not have minded had the Vicomtesse de Vincennes and the Minister of Justice never met.

Behind him Ginevra suddenly swept to her feet, her skirts swirling again around the boy's head as she strode over to her writing desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper, ink and a quill pen. Very well, then. If Claude would insist upon being so stubborn, she would simply take matters into her own hands. She would not give in to his will, all that needed to be done was persuade him to visit and the other matters would fall neatly and silently into place. No mater what he believed, with his bony steepled hands, the flesh of them white and cold and lined finely over every knuckle, and quietly smug steel eyes, the iron grey of his eyebrows arching delicately above them, Ginevra ruled her own life. Not even her husband, her lawful lord and master, could dictate her actions to her. Men, French men particularly, were fools. Claude, though infinitely more intelligent than those around him, was, nonetheless, a man. She had dealt with these slight offences before, she was confident she could direct the outcome of this one. She began to write:

_My dear beloved,_

_How long now has it been since last we sat together in private confidences and shared joys! What, only two weeks? True may it be said that lovers notice not the passage of time, except when they are absent from each other. I have felt this time as keenly as a knife's point placed within a hair's breadth of one's throat; at any second it might be withdrawn, at any moment plunged forward. I wait, as one in Purgatory, knowing not which it will be._

_My heart's song, you were right, as you are invariably right, about that accursed poet; let him rot on the streets, he has earned his just rewards, what care I! Indeed I have half a mind to bless the fool, for without his scrawlings, amateurish and cowardly though they might be, I might never have known the inestimable pleasure of your tongue curling and gracing, your lips forming, your very breath breaking the air with that pseudonym -_

_Belladonna._

_Merely the memory of how it sounds on your lips causes a tremor to pass through me._

_Isolation is a dangerous sport, it leaves one altogether too much time to think and contemplate upon what one could more profitably be doing. My thoughts turn always to you, my darling, my true joy, my love, and the many delightful hours we can always spend together, entertaining each other on our favourite shared topics. The image of your own conduct, at all times perfectly dignified, utterly controlled, make it possible for me to endure the idiocy of those around me; my husband, his brother and all of those fools they choose for companions. But when I compare them to you - their slouching, sweating brows to your high and fair forehead, their fat, slobbering lips to the smooth, perfectly cut ones that rest in your face - the weak, hunched over shoulders to your proud, erect form, cutting an imposing path wherever you tread and all they can do, idiotic weak fools that they are, is scurry apart to make way for you, growing small and limp by your superior light, burning bright from within - surely you must comprehend, my darling, this yearning inside of me, this growing ache for you, that begins as an emptiness in the caverns of my heart, and grows, expands to set fire to my bosom and heat the pit of my belly. To have your form before me, so straight and so strong, long and powerful, possessing me in my love for you. For your brow to crease so delicately like fine, white paper, as you enjoy fully the passions and varied delights of our shared interests. For your lips to form that name - Belladonna - releasing it in one murmured breath, warm and enraptured against my cheek, as once again I astound you with knowledge no woman you have yet met can equal. Tell me, my heart, my kindling joy - do you not wish we could share such moments again? Have you no stirring within you to be once more by my side, baring our souls to each other and delighting in what only we can know, and know in each other?_

_Henri travels once more to the countryside; I know not where, for his infernal business this coming Wednesday. Say then you will arrive on the following Thursday and stop a day or two. My home, my belongings, my person and myself are yours and at your disposal. Make use of them as you will, and when you are able. Come, my beloved, come and stay with me._

_This note comes to you from Rossignol's own trusted hands. Send your response the same way. I await it eagerly, with pounding heart and shortened breath._

_I will know no peace until I have heard from you, whatever be your response. If we are meant to suffer to be rewarded, then I have suffered enough to last me beyond life - show mercy and end this suffering, give me a release from this torture which so consumes my being - come and be by my side. I cannot live without you, but nor can I die._

_Until then I remain, loyal and true, blessing your name and exalting it above all others,_

_Belladonna_

She sat back and gazed upon the paper with a cold and critical eye. It was hastily composed true, though the spindly, delicate letters did not betray that - and she would choke over such false sentiments of love - but it would serve its purpose. The power of God was not so strong within Claude that the sin of Adam could not swell within him - and as Claude himself justified it - he was mortal and weak, his earthly flesh easily tempted and just as easily gratified. There was enough within this letter to arouse within him memories of the Vicomtesse - her pale, round Madonna face - her pale, round Madonna breasts - her crown of shining, black hair, her girdle of same. The Vicomtesse's still white face glimmered once more as she lifted the page to behold it at arm's length, the sheen leaving the letters as the ink dried, and ran luminous eyes over it - a small smile curved the corner of her lip. Claude would come. He would come.

She snapped her head around, breaking into life once more and addressed her beloved page.

"Rossignol!"

The boy had left his studies in an instant and was kneeling by the Vicomtesse's side, gazing adoringly up to her face.

"My Vicomtesse, you have need of me?"

She'd turned in the carved, high backed chair, the edge of her skirts brushing Rossignol's knees, her perfume filling his nostrils. She smiled down at him as she creased the letter sharply, folding it, then running a hand once more through his golden locks, it straying down to cup his silky cheek.

"I do indeed, my Rossignol. I have need of you, you whom I trust and you only who I can trust." The caress in her voice had the same quality as gravel wrapped in velvet. To Rossignol it was a sweet sound. The Vicomtesse poured the wax and pressed the Vincennes coat of arms into it quickly, sealing the letter. "Take this letter for me to my beloved Minister this afternoon. Be sure it is delivered to his own hands and his hands alone - if any should block your path, speak high, my little cherub, and tell them who you are and who you serve. You can do that, my Rossignol?"

Rossignol fought hard to keep the pout from his lips, the grimace from his eyes and nodded, twisting his mouth into a smile, taking the letter from her sparkling hand and tucking it carefully into the leather pouch, decorated with a clasp in the Vincennes coat of arms, slung at his belt. He got to his feet and saluted his mistress respectfully, and with a dry laugh she clasped his face in between icy hands and smiled at him, all of her teeth shining wickedly like small, pointed knives. "Wait until the rain has stopped, my little cherub, wait below stairs in the warmth, then go and make haste! You are more than capable of this task, my faithful Rossignol. Go and wait for a pause in the weather."

He pressed his pink lips to her hand, and then bowed swiftly out of the room. The Vicomtesse swept over to her settee and nestled comfortably upon it, her lips still, but her eyes smiling and smug.


	5. Chapter 5

Outside in the corridor, Rossignol was sulking to himself as he headed towards the marble staircase. Of course he would carry out the Vicomtesse's instructions, but that did not necessitate liking them. He scuffed his fine shoes irritably on the steps as he tripped down them and hoped the Minister would not be in the Palace. His mistress had said deliver them to his hands only, and if the Minister were not there, then he could not very well follow that instruction could he?

Or better still - if the Minister should grow angry at what the Vicomtesse had written him - if he cursed her name and swore never again to speak with her! Then he would be out of their lives for good and Rossignol need not ever feel the prick of jealousy behind his eyes again. The Minister had never liked him anyway, looking upon him with grey eyes that were set in an ill-shaped head high above Rossignol, as one of the statues ornamenting Notre Dame. The Minister had spoken coldly to Rossignol before, had told him to hold his tongue, had bade him leave the room, had requested him to fetch him wine, had even, oh horror, cuffed him upon occasion - and what had his beloved Mistress done in her loyal Rossignol's defence? Nothing. Perhaps a few fumbled words, silenced instantly at a glance from the Minister, but asides from that - nothing. Merely nodded at him and instructed him in harsh tones - not unlike those she used upon common servants! - to do as the Minister bid. Rossignol balled his hands up by his side and pounded the marble floor hard as he stormed beneath stairs, his cherub's face marred horribly by a dark scowl. The same actions that would result in immediate exile of a lover when performed by the Minister were met with something close to approval!

Rossignol felt sure he hated the Minister.

He demanded bread and cheese from one of the smudge-cheeked serving girls who bobbed him a hasty curtsy and fetched him both, and a glass of watered down wine besides. They servants treated him with same deference as the Vicomtesse - to do otherwise would meet with harsh repercussions at her hands. Then, a pout on his pretty pink lips, he went out through the kitchens and out of the stables.

Chewing hard with pearly teeth on the bread and cheese, he upturned his curly head to the grey heavens and scowled again. Perhaps the rain would not stop - ah but no. Already it had lightened to a mere sprinkle. He would have to go soon, or face the cold, hard stare of disappointment from the Vicomtesse - the one that stole his sleep.

Erik, the second coachman, rode up then in a pony trap with, most astonishingly, the Vicomte by his side. Rossignol's scowl deepened, and he moved hastily back into the shadows of the stable, though still mindful of his slippers being soiled. He hated the Vicomte because the Vicomtesse did, in Rossignol's eyes he was the object of revulsion he was for the Vicomtesse, the same gross leech, sucking the very life out of her day by day. He was sure the Vicomte was no fonder of him, and mindful of his loyalty to the Vicomtesse, he quickly drew the letter from his pouch and tucked it inside his tunic securely.

With his slack lower lip, and watery eyes, the Vicomte nodded to Erik. "Yes, its well, its well - it will do for the journey." Only Henri Vincennes was a lord weak enough to be persuaded to enter the stables. Turning his back on Erik who tipped his cap and begun unfastening the horses to lead them away for grooming, the Vicomte made his way almost hesitantly to the stables, a stick in silk hose and gold brocade. Rossignol thought with a sneer of superiority that the Vicomte faced his own reflection with that same hesitation - as though the fool thought he might manipulate himself into something he did not want to do.

The rain stopped and Rossignol glared beyond at the glimmer of sun peeking out from behind one of the clouds. Stepping out from the shadows, and slipping quietly past the Vicomte, he threw the last of his bread and cheese at one of the horses, who snorted offensively when the crumbs hit his eye. The Vicomte turned, peering out into the soft grey light beyond the stable.

"Rossignol - is that you?"

Rossignol's shoulders sank and inwardly he groaned as he turned and made a polite bow to the Vicomte. "What are you doing out here, Rossignol - I would of thought my - humm - dear wife would have you close by her side, confined to the house as she is."

Rossignol bowed again, and said with as much humility as he could muster -

"The Vicomtesse wishes me to deliver a message to town for her, a message of some importance, and she bid me go this very afternoon."

The Vicomte's sallow face had creased into a tight-lipped smile, and he was drawing something out from the folds of his tunic and holding it out to the boy. Brows knit in curiosity; Rossignol stepped forward and took it. It was a letter, much the same as the Vicomtesse's, folded and sealed with the coat of arms. Rossignol stared at it mutely for a moment before becoming aware the Vicomte was addressing him.

"How very fortunate!" Henri was saying. "I need this letter taken to town immediately as well. If you are going I need not bother one of the other servants who have more important things to do then learn Greek fairytales and other such nonsense." It was all Rossignol could do to keep the sneer from his face. "You can do that for me, Rossignol?"

Still mute, the boy nodded, and with a jerk of the head the Vicomte turned and walked away. "Very good. It is going to the Mademoiselle Anne d'Arras, who is presently residing with her family in the Palace of Justice. Go now, and be swift."

Out of an overwhelming urge of rebelliousness Rossignol lingered a few minutes more, then set out quickly over the gravely road which led the short way to Paris.

-----

In Paris, out on the streets, minus diklo, cloak and shoes, Herlikin Trouillefou danced in the gutters of near-empty streets, smothering her ankles in red leaves, letting her body move to the wind as a cobra to the pipe of a fakir. Her dress was soaked through and her hair tangled around on itself like seaweed and she had the vague impression she was dancing underwater. The rains had set in again, heavier than before, and Herli was enjoying thoroughly the echoing emptiness of the streets, having snuck out for a moment of respite, leaving the children in the Court centre to play with the others, leaving her husband, who could not work on such a day, in the warm security of the tavern. Herlikin loved rainy days - a love that had grown from hate. When she'd first arrived in Paris rain had kept her confined underground, trapped in the Court with naught but her own company for comfort. She had detested the icy, sleeting feel - so different from the warm gushes in India, and the sudden change of weather had made her susceptible to colds and fevers. Nowadays, she had a far different attitude.

"She's gone with the raggle-taggle gypsies oh!" Herli splashed up and down with each beat of the song in the puddles that filled the gaps between the uneven cobblestones, ignoring the numbness in her toes, examining the way the cold make her scar tissue stand out against her flesh. Wouldn't Clopin whip her hard for coming home with wet feet and runny nose? She grinned to herself and continued her dance.

After a while she slowed to a walk, shivering a little and clutching her hands tight across her bosom. She would have to go home soon. She could always stop by in the tavern and let Clopin scold her and then take her home to warm her up - Herli smiled against the strands of hair plastered to her face and the skip returned to her step. Then she could rub his back and put herbal dressings over the welts that had almost healed. Herli sighed and breathed warm air onto her numb fingers. They'd not mentioned the occurrence to any of the rom within the Court. Such injustices often befell the gypsies, and Clopin had no need to be ashamed of it - but - somehow it seemed more vulgar, more of an offence that the King of Thunes could not stand up for himself against such outrageous assaults for fear of being hung. It was a blow to his ego, he who prided himself on always being in control, of being master of every situation. Herli had held her tongue. She'd not breathed a word of it, even to Colombine. She glared venomously out over the grey stones extending in front of her. What she wouldn't give to have that noble bitch alone in a dark alley without her coachman and his crop.

Notre Dame rose towering towards the heavens on her left, making her feel as a gnat in the presence of a bird. She hurried her pace a little. Herli had been inside the great Cathedral once before, and had been relieved to find she had not burst into flames but the grandeur and air of solemnity about the imposing structure still struck a chord of wariness within her. Feeling both foolish and daring she turned quickly to the large double oak doors and crossed her eyes, sticking her tongue in her cheek. A flash of gold crouching near one of the statues carved into the walls caught her eye and she stopped in her tracks. Through the drizzle all she could make out was a strong, rich red interwoven with gold, but even that was enough for her to forget her superstitions and walk quickly toward the Cathedral, it looming larger and larger above her. Mounting the steps she was somewhat taken aback to find a pretty young boy there, yellow curls spilling over his forehead like gold shavings, baby blue eyes set in round pink and white cheeks, squatting on the stones and bunching his rich velvet tunic up over his legs so it would not scrape on the ground. He was such a beautiful boy that Herli could not help but smile at him, while he looked at her with a curious expression of apprehensiveness and calculation.

Rossignol looked back at the strange, wet creature that had appeared suddenly before him and remained silent. The light olive colour of her skin made it clear immediately she would be, at the most, a maidservant or a girl from one of the farms outside of Paris. At the least, a gypsy - and Rossignol's eyes wandered over her brightly coloured and patterned garments, the bronze jewellery that littered her arms and fingers and his pulse rate sped up. Her smile, though friendly, did nothing to disarm him - her eyes were distant in her head, and furthermore, were fixed hungrily on the ruby signet ring he wore. He noted with a tremor their odd colouring and stories the Vicomtesse had told him of gypsy witches sprang suddenly into his head.

"What are you doing out in the rain, child?" the creature asked him, her accent soft and strange. He pursed his lips and did not answer, but rose to his feet. She was very small, this woman, in fact he was almost as tall as her. Her expression did not change when he stood, she continued to look at him with a queer, half smile on her face, her hands harmlessly by her sides. She repeated the question. "Didn't you hear me, boy? What are you doing out in the rain? Your pretty tunic will become ruined!" There was an edge of mockery on her last words. Clearly the woman had either no sense of propriety or she did not care. Rossignol's clothes and colouring clearly indicated him as above this creature in station, but she quite bold facedly look him in the eye, her expression getting sharper, her smile more sly. Rossignol watched her examine his fine hose and the embroidery on his tunic, and to distract her he said suddenly –

"I'm delivering a message for my mistress to the Palace of Justice. I waited here by the Cathedral to protect me both from the rain and from harm."

Herli's eyes left the intricate pattern along the hem of the child's tunic and leapt back to his glass-blue ones. His voice was rounded as his cheeks, soft and pale like shimmery bells - with an odd hollowness beneath it. There was something canny about him that was quickly wearing off the angelic beauty of his face. He was just a small boy, and rather plump besides. She rather fancied she was stronger than him. And that ring would like so fine on her eldest son's beautiful, brown hand - ah! Herli wiped such thoughts from her mind with the trick Abigail had taught her "Would you want someone to rob from your boy, Harlan?". No of course not. Move away, Herli, let the child be. She moved to walk away and the boy's fair brows rose as his eyes darted round to watch her. She could not resist turning back to him with one last, coveting gaze slowly thrown over his form with the words -

"The Cathedral is a false security, boy. If one wants to rob you, they will rob you."

It was during that gaze that the buckle on his pouch caught her eye. A flash of recognition sparked in her bosom and Rossignol was stunned when she leapt forward to grab him harshly by the wrist, wrenching it away from his side. He let out an alarmed cry, then his soft lips were mashed beneath the cold metal of the rings on her fingers as she silenced him, examining the Vincennes coat of arms that adorned the buckle. Rossignol stood still only for a moment, then began to struggle, trying to wrench his wrist free from her grasp. With a sudden surprising surge of strength, the woman shoved him back with an ugly sneer, shaking him by the scruff of the neck.

"You work for the Vincennes? Speak to me, boy, speak to me!!" Rossignol cried out again, and began to kick out with his slippered feet, as the woman twisted to avoid them, still grasping him firmly. She threw herself against him again, knocking them both down, then reached for his pouch. "Delivering a message for your mistress? Your mistress is Ginevra de Vincennes?" Rossignol stubbornly refused to answer, but as she tore the pouch from his belt he suddenly ceased his struggles.

Herli got up off the boy with a triumphant grin, clasping the leather pouch in her hand. "What a rather splendid stroke of luck!" her voice had a spiteful bite to it, her eyes sparkled wickedly down on Rossignol who propped himself up on his elbows and gazed at her from rounded eyes, his lips firmly pursed shut. "As I said boy, the Cathedral is a false security."

Brazenly she turned on her heels and began to stride away, clutching Rossignol's pouch to her bosom like a baby, a spring in her step. As an afterthought she turned back. "Sorry for knocking you down, boy!" she said amiably, then ran lightly down the Cathedral steps and out onto the deserted streets.

Rossignol stayed still where he was on the cold stone for several moments more, watching the bright, small figure as it got further and further away, finally disappearing out of the square altogether. Slowly, a smile spread on his rosy lips.

-----

By the banks of the river nearest the outskirts of the city, Rossignol clambered his way slowly down, heedless now of getting wet, but taking care not to slip in the mud. Once he reached the angrily rushing water he put a hand inside his tunic and withdrew the Vicomtesse's letter from the place he'd secured it upon the Vicomte's appearance. With a smug smile he let the letter fall into the water, and watched it as it was swept furiously away, pulled below the surface.

As he clambered up the banks once more he no longer tried to stop himself from slipping. In fact, he slipped several times, and once upon a sharp rock, which tore a hole in his stocking and loosened the embroidery on his tunic. It was not hard to urge the tears after that, and at a hurried pace he headed quickly for the Chateau de Vincennes.

-----

The door of the Bells & Motley slammed open with a whirl of wind and a cool spray, and Clopin was not the only one to turn to it with a scowl upon his face. Clopin's changed quickly to an expression of surprise; for it was his wife he beheld in the doorway, a triumphant grin all over her pointy little face, something that was probably not hers clutched close to her breast, and soaked to the bone. She shut the door quickly behind her and ignored the glares of the other patrons, skipping merrily over to her husband's side where he sat at the bar, staring at her stonily.

"What the hell are you doing, you foolish girl?" he demanded of her as she sniffled and shivered, still grinning.

"I'm here to see you!" she responded cheekily, the water from her person dripping steadily to the wooden panels beneath them, and he set his drink down with a sharp rap.

"Don't start getting clever! What do you mean, running around in the rain like that? You look like a drowned monkey! You'll have caught your death by now!"

She pouted a little and looked at him beseechingly. "I'm sorry, my soleil. It was ridiculously silly of me. Take me home?"

Clopin's eyebrows shot up sharply. Clearly she had some mischief afoot, the admission of her silliness was proof enough of that. "Herli," he said seriously "what have you done, and what are you holding?"

She widened her eyes innocently, one hand leaving the brown leather pouch she carried to rest itself lightly on his inner thigh, leaning forward to whisper in his ear - and if her cheek was cold, her breath was not - "I've not done anything except seek an excuse for you to warm me up, love. Don't make me go home by myself to sit at a distant, unfeeling fire."

Clopin sighed and grinned. She was lying, but as she leaned back again, still grinning and with straggly wet hair in her eyes, he could see she really did want him to take her home.

Another sharp raise of the eyebrows "At least I'm suitably consoled for bearing your lies, kitten. But I'm going to whip you hard." He made his goodbyes to his friends, drained his drink then stood to go, as Herli turned on her heel, glancing back flirtily over her shoulder.

"I was counting on it." she said wickedly, and let out a squeal and skipped away as he darted forward with a growl. The tavern at that time of day and weather held mostly rom who'd come up from the Court below, and those otherwise were involved enough in their own affairs to not notice the two slipping out to the back of the tavern to travel to the Court of Miracles by the exit concealed there. Herli was excessively cheerful as she cuddled the leather pouch close to her, and Clopin wondered curiously what it held. He paused as Herli skipped on ahead to exchange brief commentary with a few of the men who informed him there was a pig roasting on a spit in the Centre, and plenty of beer besides, and then hurried back after Herli, who had disappeared inside their warm and comfortable tent. As he reached the embroidered flap he noted how quiet it was within. That meant the children were likely to be playing somewhere in the Court. Well, that was as well. Herli wouldn't be happy if there were witnesses. Clopin grinned and pushed the flap open. A single candelabra was burning by the bed, and a soft, rose-scented incense drifted lightly through the air. The tent was aglow with a shimmering warmth as the candlelight bounced off the rich, bright colours Herli and Clopin garnished their home with. Herli was there, perched on the edge of Clopin's high backed chair, towelling her hair dry and clad only in a brief cotton chemise that was as wet as the rest of her and clinging tightly to her skin. She glanced up to smile at her husband who secured the flap shut and took off his hat, followed quickly by his gloves, discarding them carelessly on the nearby worktable, littered with wood shavings and paints.

"What treasures did you come home with today, kitten?" he asked her mockingly as she turned away to continue combing her hair.

"You'll love it! I'll show you - later." she said meaningfully, with a quick glance at him. He leaned against the chair and ran a hand over her head. "It's not yours, is it?"

She tossed her hair back over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. "It is nothing of value - material at any rate. And it's not as if any will recognise the 'drowned monkey' as me."

"Oh, so you were brazen about it then?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Quite brazen."

He leaned down lower, his breath tickling her ear lobe. "Foolish girl, outside getting soaked through, robbing Parisians, causing your poor, put-upon husband to worry and bemoan you."

She blinked up at him with a mockingly-contrite expression, wickedness glimmering in the depths of her eyes. He unmoulded himself elegantly from the chair, turning around swiftly to place a large hand on either one of the chair's arms, smiling down at his wife who smiled cat-like back at him and laid her brush to the side. "I imagine you're quite chilled through."

"Quite chilled."

"We should see about getting you warmed up."

She looked back into his brilliant black eyes with half-kidded ones. "Indeed we should."

With a startlingly quick movement Clopin grasped her up by either wrist and hauled her out of the chair, pulling her towards him. Landing with a light thud on the bed, he pulled his wife face first across his lap and then whacked her soundly across the rear five times. Herlikin's face changed to one of outrage and shock, and she struggled against her husband's wiry, strong arms as he released her with a short laugh and she leapt off him, clenching her fists at her sides and sputtering angrily, her chemise fallen charmingly off one shoulder. His deep eyes sparkled at her merrily from his angular brown face and she stomped her foot, too outraged to speak. He shrugged.

"I said I would whip you, and I did! I have a strong suspicion you played the little idiot today, Herli. Besides, I don't like it when you make me worry. Now come here and I'll warm you properly."

Certain she had been wronged, and infuriated by his trickery she merely seethed and shook her head, finally managed to gasp out "You have played 'the idiot' more times than I!"

He tapped a long finger on a long chin thoughtfully. "It's true, I have." he admitted. "But uh - " and the smile returned once more. "I am a man and you are a woman, you know."

He quickly dodged the shoe she tore from the floor and flung at him, acrobat's body twisting effortlessly before retrieving his hat and gloves. She, meanwhile had tossed herself onto the bed, and sat with folded arms, pouting furiously. "Sulk, if you want to. But I would like it very much if you joined me in the centre - they've got a big fat pig roasting there, and a few mugs of wine should warm you up." She remained silent. "Very well, then. I'm sure they're waiting for me to entertain them at any rate." He bowed to her before leaving. "You know very well you can't control me through the loins Herli, it's an insult to both of us you should even try." He pulled his hat in place and stepped out, before poking his head in one last time. "And rather nasty too."


	6. Chapter 6

Rossignol burst into the Vicomtesse's chambers, crying and a mess. The Vicomtesse leapt from her settee with an expression of alarm at the sight of her beloved page's muddied, wet form, left knee poking through a hole in his stocking and raw red with blood.

"My Rossignol!" she cried, her velvet draped arms extending themselves towards the boy. He thought, in a moment of joy at the concern on her face, that she appeared very much like the figure of the Madonna in one of the vividly coloured paintings the Vicomtesse stood him before silently for hours. But then he was on his knees before her voluminous skirts, hiding his face in his hands and crying piteously. Her cold, slender hands worried themselves through his soft hair, the underbelly of her rings scraping against his flesh. "Rossignol, who has accosted you?" she demanded of him angrily, her voice biting as snow. "Tell me!"

With a pitiful whimper, Rossignol dared to lift his eyes a half inch, assuming an attitude of shame. "I've failed you, my Vicomtesse!"

She gathered his face between her hands, lifting it forcibly so his blue eyes could gaze into her black ones. "What do you mean, my cherub? Who has hurt you so?"

He tore his face from her grasp as though he could not bear her to look at him. "I was robbed! A gypsy witch pounced on me as I made my way hastily to the Palace of Justice, she beat me hard and tore my pouch from me, I believe she would of dragged me away had I not managed to slip free of her!"

"My poor Rossignol! My sweet, defenceless one! A gypsy, a murderous accursed gypsy!" in her outraged indignation and horror that her prize pet should so be treated, the Vicomtesse's shrewdness seemed to have gone momentarily on hiatus, for otherwise she would surely have found it odd that Rossignol's hand was still crowned with the glittering ruby she'd given him, that the slender gold chain around his neck was intact, that his rich tunic, apart from being muddied, was otherwise untouched. But the sight of crystalline tears on the boy's cherubic cheeks touched something within the Vicomtesse - an anger at seeing one of her possession's marred and touched by such filth. She rose swiftly, all but knocking the soiled Rossignol to the ground and swooped for the door, wrenching it open with such force the impact of the gold handle caused a black dent in the wall and the china to rattle within their cabinet.

"Fetch Rossignol a bath and clean tunic and be swift! Go, now!" the new maidservant's worn black shoes slipped helplessly on the marble floors as she scurried to follow the Vicomtesse's orders, determined not to suffer the same fate as her predecessor. Ginevra turned back to where Rossignol was slouched on the ground, face hidden between pink and white hands, sobbing sorrowfully. Seating herself gracefully on the settee, she drew the boy into her arms, holding his muddied cheek to her bosom where he breathed her perfume in deeply.

"Hush now, Rossignol."

"I have failed you! I am shamed and disgraced!"

"Hush now! In what way have you failed me, you have been attacked and robbed by a gypsy?"

"Oh Vicomtesse! I plead your forgiveness!"

"You are forgiven!" she declared with a dash of impatience. "Now tell me what has happened?"

"She stole from me the letter my Vicomtesse sent me to the Minister of Justice with!"

Any who had been witness to it would not have believed it possible; the Vicomtesse's face went whiter. Where there had previously appeared to be no colour, there apparently was, for her face was now more stark, more pale against the black of her hair and eyes, than before.

"The Minister's letter?" she repeated after a spell, her voice quiet to hide the hoarseness behind it. Rossignol nodded into the pearls and bloodstones of her bodice.

"That is right; she tore it from my belt with my pouch."

The Vicomtesse sat up, pushing Rossignol with her, grasping him by the shoulders and shaking him hard. "Tell me everything, Rossignol, everything!"

Faltering, nervous in the face of the Vicomtesse's anxiety and determined to keep his role, Rossignol dashed tears from his eyes and let his lip tremble. "It is just as I said – I was hurrying along when the rains set in. I paused nearby the Cathedral steps to wait until it became lighter, and then she appeared out of the rains – and she walked up to me with all of her sharp and pointed teeth bared and pounced on my tear, tearing at my clothes and hair and pulling my pouch from me and shoving me back hard. She was about to pounce on me again, to pull me away, when I managed to scurry onto the Cathedral steps, and when she saw the Church she gave a shriek and ran away, even as her flesh began to sizzle!"

The Vicomtesse mulled over this for several moments, her eyes stonily fixed on Rossignol as he began to fidget under her intense gaze, squeezing a few tears more from his eyes in the hopes it would make his story more plausible. She startled him to jump a second later. "Was there anything odd about her, this gypsy witch?"

Rossignol raced over the details in his mind, and his heart leapt gladly when one distinguishing characteristic leapt forward. "Oh yes! Its how I knew she was truly a witch and a Daughter of Satan!"

"What was it, what was it?" The Vicomtesse's voice was livid in its urgency.

"She had eyes of two different colours! They did not match!"

The Vicomtesse released Rossignol who fell with a gasp back against the settee, before rising agitatedly to her feet and striding over to her alcove to gaze out of the double windows to the bleak grey of the skies beyond. The whore of the Town Square a week ago had had mismatched eyes. They could very well be the same. Undoubtedly they were the same. The Vicomtesse shivered as she remembered the girl's bared teeth and flashing eyes, the evil red of her hair as it snaked over her shoulders. Clearly the witch was out to wreak revenge for her gypsy-man, her wicked consort.

"Vicomtesse?" Ginevra jumped violently, turning back with an infuriated scowl for the maidservant who hovered uncertainly in the doorway.

"What?" Ginevra impatiently snapped. The girl shrunk back as though the Vicomtesse had bitten her and bobbed a hasty curtsy.

"Your page's bath is ready and awaiting him, Vicomtesse." She said meekly. With a sigh the Vicomtesse nodded to Rossignol who huddled still by the settee, looking at her from round, anxious eyes.

"Go Rossignol, hurry and have yourself tended to."

Rossignol obeyed quickly, scurrying out after the girl, allowing himself only a twinge of disappointment the Vicomtesse no longer attended his baths as she had when he was younger, if only to sit to the side and look on.

The Vicomtesse returned to her musings by the window, her hands balling themselves into fists. What would the witch do now? What could she do? The letter, though containing implications only, was more than enough to incriminate an extra-marital affair. She herself hinted at it to Henri, sometimes mocked him with it – but never once did she confess, nor say outright, nor mention it seriously. Never once had he either seen or caught her with a lover, unless it should be a casual conversation at a gathering. And now an unscrupulous, villainous gypsy had her hands upon a most important piece of evidence! Should the information get out – Ginevra shuddered more violently still as images of a repeat performance of the whisperings, mockery and snide remarks that followed the release of 'La Belladonna' played through her head. A biting pain in her hand caused her to gasp and the limb flew up in front of her face in shock. So tightly had she clenched her fists, that one of her finely pointed nails had broken the flesh, and she stared in mute horror at the gem of blood that welled from the cut, before clenching her fist shut once more and turning violently from the window.

She had nothing to fear, she reasoned. What gypsy could read?

-----

Much later that evening, Clopin returned from the Court Centre with more merriness in his breast than had been caused by good wine. As he'd expected, they'd demanded entertainment from him, and ever the born-performer he'd been all but too glad to oblige them, with songs, some sly legerdemain and cheery witticisms, all met with roaring approval. He'd been a little sorry that Herli had not been there for it all, he'd wanted to sit down and talk with her about lovely everything and joyous nothing, for the last two days had been busy for them both with little time to spare for the other - but she would insist upon idiocy disguised as independence. It was not that Clopin enjoyed spanking her - well under certain circumstances he did, but she invariably enjoyed it then too - if it were not for the way of the world, she could do many of the things she shouldn't and he would not try to stop her - within reason - but such freedom was not the way of the world, and Herli seemed determined to ignore the fact a woman could simply not get away with what a man could. Clopin did not know how strict propriety had been in India - Herli was reluctant to elaborate on such details and so provide her husband further ground to discipline her upon - but she had surely lived in France long enough to know what was acceptable. He knew she grew frustrated from caring for four rapidly growing children, and that not enough plays were put on during the year for her to act in and so vent that frustration - if it wasn't for the fact that she was risking her neck every time she sought entertainment - Clopin sighed and tugged on his goatee, one long-fingered hand scratching lazily at his ribs - deliberately ignoring the duplicity of his reason. He risked his neck a dozen times a day in similar pursuits. But, then it all boiled down to the same thing - he was a man in a man's world. Halting by Bethan's tent, supporting himself inconspicuously on a chair and trying not to breathe in her direction lest she detect the stain of alcohol on his breath, he charmed two roses from her and began a tottering path back to his tent. Well, roses should satisfy her for awhile, she was so damned fond of eating them.

Poking his head cautiously inside the tent, handsome long nose first, beautiful black eyes next, Clopin looked around for his wife. The tent, at first hazed glance, appeared empty.

Pulling his hat from his shaggy black head, Clopin pulled himself into the tent on lanky legs. "Herli!" he called towards the bed, none too softly - alcohol making him forget that sound travels quite easily over a ten foot distance. He crept in, and quickly lit the lamp which hung from the ceiling, before turning around and around, looking all over the tent. No it really was empty! Just to be sure he hauled up the bed sheets and looked beneath the bed.

"Herli?" he whispered. No, she was not there.

Clopin sat up from his bony knees with an effort, and with a greater one pulled himself onto the bed, releasing a heavy sigh, and pulling from his concealed pockets his wooden look-alike he addressed the Puppet drunkenly. "So, my young friend, you doubtless know where my wife is and are a conspirer in her plot! Tell me then, where is she?"

Puppet, whose head was never affected by wine, merely shook it vigorously at his master and retorted. "She's cuckolding you and I both!" and ducked swiftly when Clopin moved to slap him. "Truly, big oaf, if you did not indulge in your drink so much you might perhaps be more observant." and he gestured towards Herli's trunk. Bemused, Clopin craned his neck to see what Puppet pointed at - Herli had flung her clothes about and they lay haphazardly about the floor. Further investigation revealed the hardest of her shoes were missing, and Clopin's long road-worn cloak too. Scratching his head, and shaking it hard to clear it of the cobwebs which had set in swiftly after the tenth mug, Clopin pondered the disappearance.

"Well, she's off on some divilment to be sure." he mused to his small wooden friend who nodded his head in terse agreement, his painted smile mocking the seriousness of the situation. Clopin remembered the glee with which she had danced home and the triumphant smirk which lit her face up like a small, winking gem. He frowned. "And she's leaving me out of it!"

"Fancy that, she can tie her laces without you!" Puppet trilled. Turning sombrely towards him, Clopin brought his friend's eyes in line with his own.

"One day," he intoned "I'll place you in a bucket of termites."

Puppet silenced him by clasping his nose between cloth gloves.


	7. Chapter 7

"Pierre!! Pierre Gringoire!" The slender, dark haired scrap's head shot up with a grin as he turned from the smouldering fireplace to greet his addresser, standing with a charming bow.

"Herlikin! What a truly inestimable pleasure!"

Herli stepped back and folded her arms, staring at the young poet with narrowed eyes and straight mouth. "Madame Trouillefou, Gringoire." she said drily. "I'll thank you to remember that."

Pierre laid a hand upon his chest and apologised. "I am sorry, Madame Trouillefou. The desire for the intimate honour of addressing you by your given name results in the unintentional verbalisation of it. Pray, forgive me."

Herli pursed her lips and looked him over with sharpened eyes, as the two stood before each other in front of the fireplace. He knew full well what she was doing - comparing him to her husband - and finding him lacking.

"Grotesque verbosity, you're no more a poet than I am a nun!" She'd snapped at him once, and he had never been able to resist the opportunity afterwards to laden his speeches with unnecessary words. What was it Clopin had once elbowed him with, one night after too many drinks and both of them clambering upon a table to outwit the other - ah yes, "Cumbersome articulation, you're no more a poet than I am a priest!"

Gringoire chuckled at the memory as Herli finally chose forgiveness (she must want something, he grinned) and extended a glittering little hand for Gringoire to kiss - though his lips did not meet her flesh - Herlikin Trouillefou actively disliked being touched by strange men, and though the two had known each other for years, the fact she had not shared a bed with him, or given birth to him made him a strange man in her eyes. He'd learned that the hard way when one of those cheap baubles she wore cut a tiny gash beneath his eye after she pelted him a slap for laying a hand around her shoulder. Then of course Clopin had wanted to know what he'd done to deserve a slap - Herli could be a dangerous woman when she chose.

Herli's little outburst over his poetic skills had been indirectly influenced by her husband and his defamations of Gringoire's talent, he thought as Herlikin primly took the wooden chair by the fire he offered her, and then hoisted one from beneath a nearby table to join her. She'd come to the man she married as little more than a child, after all, and had grown into a woman under his guidance - it was only natural she reflect so many of his thoughts - and rebel against so many others.

"May I fetch Madame Trouillefou some nourishment to warm her belly?"

Again that deadpan stare from beneath the strands of red hair that forever floated in her eyes. Sharply drawings the cords that held the old cloak she was wearing together at her neck, she nodded curtly.

"Monsieur Tavern-keeper!" He turned with a flourish to the bar and strode up to it, slapping his hand against the wooden surface, and masking his grimace with a grin. Pierre knew full well the man's name was Louis. "Monsieur Tavern-keeper, two glasses of your finest vintage, make it the deepest crimson of a hue equalled only by the heart's own liquor, squeezed from the same grapes that garnish the vineyards of Dionysus, that happy fellow, that cheerful sport who taught all mankind - "

"Shut UP Gringoire." Herlikin snapped from behind him, pushing her cloak back from her shoulders and folding her legs. "I would like to be able to stomach the wine."

"As you wish, sweet Madame!" he turned quickly back to the bar and whispered. "Your cheapest, man, cheapest!"

Louis snorted and turned away to fetch the wine, used as he was to Gringoire's truly poetic state of empty purse and emptier pockets. Pierre brought the glasses back to where they sat and she nodded her thanks, waiting for him to sit down before raising the glass to her lips.

Madame Trouillefou and the Poet Gringoire had a type of affection for the other. Having met her through her husband, having met him at the Festival of Fools one year, Pierre had been somewhat entranced by her regality, amused by her peppery temper, and intrigued by her inter-racial features. Herlikin was amused by Pierre and his aspirations to poetry, she enjoyed his ramblings and the few moments in which pretentious verbosity was lifted and the entertaining and rather sweet young man was revealed. He saw her as a rather aloof and romantic figure of a sub culture odd enough to fire his words, a brilliant nymph dancing just beyond reach; she saw him as an oddity amongst his kind - a gadje unafraid of a rom - and on occasion, a useful one too - whether it be for the alleviation of the mundane or for the assistance in difficult tasks. The relationship did not extend beyond that superficiality, and neither had an interest in pursuing it beyond that either.

Pierre made a show of rolling a mouthful of wine around in his mouth, grimacing over its sour taste and swallowing with a hearty "Ahhh." Herlikin, meanwhile, sniffed the liquid with a delicately wrinkled nose and took a tiny sip, pulling a face of distaste.

"This wine is cheap!"

"Here, have mine!" Gringoire was ever the gentleman.

Herlikin, with a suspicious sneer, grasped his glass and pulled it towards her. "It is the same wine!"

"Then I'll take it back and yours too." He made a move to do so, rough white hands clasping around the two glasses, and moving as though to lift them. He was arrested by her cold fingertips scrabbling hard against his wrists.

"You will not!" Her eyes were flashing - Gringoire thought one should never take her at face value - half the times what she says is the opposite of what she wants.

"Very well, have both!" He released the glasses, sending wine slopping a little over the rough wood surface.

Viewing it as the final affront, Herli gritted her teeth and stood. "I will not!" With a toss of the head she threw the contents of both glasses into the fire.

Gringoire slumped back in his chair, incredulity widening his eyes. "I paid for that!" he exclaimed. Herli shrugged as she settled back down.

"Not very much, I'll warrant."

Gringoire rubbed a hand over his bare chin, and pulled his mouth down in an expression of sorrow.

"And so goes the way of the world, wherein a good man, kind and true, means naught in the eyes of a lady, if the weight of his purse does not reflect the acts of his virtue, wherein the best of intentions are greeted with a sneer and considered unequal in glamour to trappings of gold and pearls, bitter - -"

"Gringoire! Stop!" Herli had clapped hands over her ears, her posture contorted in exaggerated agony to the point where she'd bent her knees and brought her feet up to her seat. Pierre grinned, bright blue eyes sparkling cheerfully.

"Madame Trouillefou, I believe you are envious I have a gift your husband does not."

She threw a condescending sneer at him. "Delude yourself, Gringoire, you do not delude others."

He chuckled and pushed brown locks out of his eyes, loosening the scarf at his neck.

She lowered her feet to the floor once more and observed him a moment through lowered lids. "My husband would've belted me for tossing out paid-for wine like that."

Pierre shrugged, knowing it was yet another game of sorts, but knowing not to what purpose. "I am not your husband. But I can give you a belting if you'd like."

Outrage rose on her like sparks until she noticed the glimmer of mockery in his eyes and calmed once more. "Witticism does not become you, Pierre" she said drily, "You seem to always miss the 'wit' part of it."

"Herli! Touché!"

"Shut up for the sake of your mindless god, and allow me to get to the point before the evening grows too late."

He raised his hands in good-natured defeat and sat back in his chair with a grin to indicate she should get to the point, the gap in his front teeth winking at her. Herli thanked him with an aristocratically raised eyebrow, and then withdrew from her bosom a sheet of ivory coloured paper, folded and decorated with a gleaming seal, black, fat writing printed carefully across the front. Pierre leaned forward a little in curiosity, squinting at the words with pursed lips as Herli nodded and held the paper out at arm's length, long fingernail tapping pointedly at the words.

"Tell me, is this letter going to the Palace of Justice?"

Pierre paused for a beat, eyes flying to hers over the top of the letter before laughing a little awkwardly and reaching out to take the letter from her.

"It's upside down." he explained, and Herli's cheeks flushed scarlet as she jerked back, scratching her shoulders uncomfortably against the wood of her chair. 'Check mate' Pierre thought before speaking out loud. "It certainly is, Herlikin my lovely friend. Le Palais de Justice on the Rue de Honneur, and it's addressed to - - "

Herlikin had recovered her dignity and whipped the letter back smartly with a shake of her hair. "Thank you, Pierre. I wanted only confirmation of the address."

Pierre grinned at her curtness and folded both arms over the table, leaning forward on them. "That's heavy, expensive paper, Herli, and all the words are spelled correctly. Can I ask how it came to your possession and why you wanted to know if it was addressed to a place by all rights you should be avoiding?"

Herlikin was tucking the letter back into her bodice, revealing a rather appetising curve of breast. 'That's why Clopin puts up with the attitude' he thought sassily, smiling politely at her as she rearranged her cloak over her shoulders, a smug smile set about her eyes.

"Certainly you can ask, Pierre." she said smoothly and he snorted and chuckled.

"And will you answer me?"

The word no was on her lips as she stood to go when she caught sight of the eager, interested gleam in Pierre's eyes. Clopin might not think much of his poetic skills, but he did think he was trustworthy. Furthermore, he could read and write. She cocked her head to the side and blinked at Pierre.

"I will tell you everything if you agree to write a letter for me."

He leaned back in his chair once more, surveying the small redhead from narrowed eyes, thoughtfully scratching his chin. "What sort of a letter?"

"Write it, and you'll find out."

He observed her for a moment, rubbing his nose and watching the bright eyes that bored into his carefully. She wouldn't reveal anything on her doll-like face, but after all - how much trouble could one letter bring? He leapt to his feet with a grin and made her a sweeping bow.

"Madame Trouillefou, it would be my pleasure."

Her smile became large and flattering.

"Pierre." she said charmingly. "You angel."

He laughed at her much changed tone of voice and offered her his arm. After a long hesitation she took it, and they moved toward the Tavern's exit, ignoring the curious glances from the few patrons who'd watched the colourful pair's goings on with drunk bemusement. "Take me to paper and ink, and you'll have your letter, Herlikin. I can't wait to find out what all this is about."

As they left the dim orange of the tavern's light to the darkness of the streets beyond, he missed the wicked glint in her eyes.

-----

_La Belladonna,_

_I have in my possession information that could ruin you. If you do not know what of what I am speaking, ask the blonde page with the ruby ring. If you wish this information to be kept secret you will meet with me at the Red Bull Tavern this evening at eight. You will come in and ask the publican to be shown to where Chaton is waiting. There we will discuss this matter. You will come alone. To breathe a word of this to a single soul will mean ruin for you and your name._

_Chaton_

Ginevra's eyes tore down the page for the fifth time before she wrenched it from her trembling fingers, leaving it to flutter onto the soft velvet red seat of her chair. She turned abruptly from the desk and once again began to pace up and down her drawing room in agitation. The letter had been brought in not a half hour earlier, borne upon a silver tray, sealed in unstamped wax, and addressed simply to 'The Vicomtesse'. The paper was a plain white sheet, cheap as was the ink and the letters, though neatly printed, bore the carelessness of the commoner. It was indistinctive and plain. The footman who had delivered the letter could tell her nothing beyond the fact that a young man, face mostly covered by a cloak to protect his head from the rain which had begun to pound down again, had handed the letter over, stressing that it was of the upmost importance and should be handed over directly to Ginevra.

A young man? She had questioned the footman - was he dark skinned? No. Did he have an accent? No. Was he very tall or lean? No. Then who was he? The Vicomtesse could not guess, unless the witch who was behind this was blasphemous enough to deck herself in the garments of men. Or worse - if she were enchantress enough to adopt another form. She shivered.

The Vicomtesse had stopped in front of her window seat once more, staring out into the dull grey of the late afternoon. The weak light threw itself over the richly coloured draperies and cushions, rendering their hues paler and duller looking, as though worn with time and ill-use, though they were very new and well-cared for. With gritted teeth, the Vicomtesse withdrew from the alcove, snapping shut the draperies behind her, the reds and purples returning to their former splendour with hasty relief, the room warm and vibrant once more.

What could she do? What choices did she have? She could ignore the note and not give in to its demands - but then, the Minister's letter could be revealed. She could keep the meeting, but take armed guards with her - but it could not be guaranteed the gypsy witch would not reveal the letter upon being captured, for attempted blackmail she would surely be convicted - but the Vicomtesse's secret would still be revealed. Oh - ! Then Claude would also be revealed, he who was believed to be so chaste and pure, ever virtuous, choosing for himself a life only of servitude and duty. He would detest her forever.

She could kill the gypsy witch.

She did not shrink from the idea; hers was not a mind to do so. Instead, she drew it closer, probing at its corners, exploring the possibilities. Alone, in the back room of a tavern - she could stab her, or poison her. It would have to be the latter. The former was far too untidy, and Ginevra did not relish the idea of a ruined gown. The Vicomtesse's eyes trailed over the settee where Rossignol sat, playing sweetly upon a harp, singing in the clear, golden tones of youth, even as his eyes followed the Vicomtesse nervously. Beneath him, in the marble stones of the floor, was the elaborate gold chest, carved in the shape of a Unicorn's head, and bearing from it's brow a genuine Unicorn's horn - Henri had paid twice the worth of his estate for it (or so it was rumoured) - and within that safe chamber, the Vicomtesse kept a number of deadly poisons. It would simply be a matter of choosing which one.

Rossignol's melody had trailed off with a sudden discord - diabolus musica - and he was staring now at the Vicomtesse with his lower lip slack, his cheeks slowly draining of their colour. She was frozen in place, seemingly gazing through him, and there was a predatory air about her stance. It sent a hundred chills shaking their way uncomfortably down his spine, and his blue eyes got rounder and rounder as she stood, silent and poised, hands clasped lightly together in front of her, her black eyes luminous.

The spell was broken suddenly as she turned away with a snap, and with trembling fingers, Rossignol attempted to resume his playing.

Ginevra had stumbled across the flaw in her plan - the gypsy witch would trust nothing from her. Not food, nor wine or anything else. To poison her she would have to clasp her by the throat, and force it down her nostrils. She would not even contemplate such physical activity - even if the rewards were a shuddering, foaming peasant, jittering into death. The Vicomtesse's imagination had painted the memory of Herlikin in demonic hues - she saw sparks within her odd coloured eyes, flames snaking out from her bright, too bright, hair, and her skin from neck to toe was too warm, expelling an unholy heat over the Vicomtesse's lovely white hand as it rested on her carriage door. Such a violent, impassioned creature.

Perhaps it was the vividness of this recollection, the final exaggeration of pointed teeth and fiery eyes, that made the Vicomtesse pause where she paced and consider - the witch had been easily over powered by her man - she had attacked a defenceless boy - had written a letter instead of flying in through the window -

Slowly, a smile slipped its way onto her lips as she moved from her sitting room to the dressing room beyond it. Perhaps the evening could even have its entertainments. She could not go alone, naturally - that notion was preposterous. But with Lasalle ever nearby, she could meet with the violent little witch and determine the situation.

Considerably cheered, the Vicomtesse seated herself at her dressing table and began to unpin her hair, it falling in glossy black waves over her shoulders and back.

A vision of gold and white appeared in the corner of her eye and she looked up with a gasp before realising with a hiss Rossignol's reflection in the glass behind her. He'd followed her in so silently - and for an instant had appeared as if - no matter. With a taunt smile she handed him the silver brush and he began to rapturously comb the long, inky depths of her hair, carefully pulling out tangles and laying it straight. She observed her reflection with a quiet satisfaction, pretending not to note when Rossignol's pink fingertips lingered at her neck and shoulders, instead loosening her bodice and rubbing scented oil over her neck, avoiding his eye.

-----

Clopin slumped, panting and sweating, over his wife's breast as she ran loving fingers through his damp hair and whispered sweet words in his ear, before laying hot kisses over her shoulders. With a groan he pulled out and rolled off her, collapsing onto his back with a sigh and a smile, while Herlikin grinned and stretched with all the smug luxury of a cat in the sun.

That morning he'd awoken with heavy bags under his eyes, and a clanging headache which had made the prospect of doing battle with his wife over her previous evenings whereabouts very undesirable. For her part, Herli had been touched by her husband's aches and pains and had been very solicitous in caring for him. Nothing could awaken the tender in Herlikin more than the sight of his unshaven cheek and bleary eye, yawning to reveal a lion's mouth of teeth, and drowsily clinging to her to stay by his side. She'd fetched him very strong, very hot and very black coffee and supported his throbbing head on her shoulder while he drank it, and had then wrapped legs around his waist, supporting his back on her bosom, and massaged his forehead and temples gently with soothing herbs. By the middle of the day he'd begun to feel halfway human once more, but had begged off performing, lazily mended broken puppets as Herli busied herself with the feeding and bathing of four children, cleaning the tent and changing the bed linen to soft, crisp sheets strewn with lavender so as to be more comfortable for her over-indulgent husband.

"You do all of this every day?" he asked her at one stage as she scolded one brat, wiped the nose of another, stirred the stew bubbling at the front of the tent and wiped down the table under her husband's feet.

"You think today is bad?" was her terse response, and he'd laughed, though not unsympathetically, and gotten to his feet with a groan to sweep her into his arms.

"Then it is no wonder you're so very highly strung, my little kitten. You should be playing with me on the stage, or upon the streets."

"So the tent can fall to ruin." She retorted crossly, but he could recognise the desire to perform in her eyes, it was a feeling he knew well.

"Ah." he pressed warm lips to her neck. "When the children are older, you will be the prima donna of every play, dance and festival the rom should put on."

"Oh yes, I know that melody." she'd snapped and his kisses had grown more lavish.

"Do you know this one?" and he drew her in deep for a kiss, drawing the tiredness and bitterness out of her with the promise of a performance - of sorts - to come. He'd laughed quietly against her cheek. "I believe I've taught you well enough."

That was two hours ago. Now, Herli's eyes were soft and loving and Clopin grunted with satisfaction as he pulled her close to him, rubbing her cheeks, loving her quietly. They sighed together and laughed as well.

"You want your pipe?" she murmured against the base of his neck.

"Please, kitten."

She sat up naked and kneeling on the bed, warm and soft and pink, carefully filled her husband's pipe as he watched her from hazy eyes, reaching out an arm to scratch her lightly on the belly, running one rough, brown hand up to cup one breast, relishing the peach-like silkiness of her skin, and then back down again. She clasped the pipe between her teeth, struck the flint and lit it, drawing in once, tossing a strand of red-hair back flirtily over her shoulder. Herli would normally not touch tobacco and constantly bemoaned its filthy scent, but in moments such as these she always took one ceremonial puff.

He took it from her, pressing his lips to her hand in thanks, and puffed happily away, grabbing hold of Herli's elbow when she went to move. She came back without complaint, snuffing out all candles but one, smiling and snuggling against his chest, and pulling a rug up about their waists.

"I'll have to change the bed linen again." she sighed with no irritation. "Tante Marie would call it a heinous crime, but I let it run out - no more babbies, not now."

He squeezed her tighter. "That is fair enough. Besides, there must be some years, and soon, when I can have you all to myself once more."

"Greedy boy" she yawned, and he agreed.

They lay together a long while in the warm semi-dark of the tent, cuddled comfortably into a satiated bundle until a light rumbling snore from Clopin started Herli out of her drowsiness. With a thudding heart she quickly and quietly untangled himself from his arms, hissing nervously when he almost awoke, and then dressed hastily, hoping she wasn't too late.

Encasing her feet in sturdy brown sandals, and once again borrowing Clopin's cloak, she dared to lay a quiet kiss on his rough cheek before darting hastily out to where Pierre waited for her.


	8. Chapter 8

The Red Bull Tavern was neither illustrious nor depraved. Its stench was not rank, its patrons did not foam at the mouth and its food had very little cat in it, all things considered. By the same token, its walls were dank and dirty, the clientele who frequented it did not know how to spell their own names and it was sometimes difficult to differentiate between the wine and the muddy water which ran by its front door.

It was this tavern that Pierre and Herlikin had met in the previous night, and it was this tavern that saw the entrance of the Vicomtesse Ginevra de Vincennes, 'disguised' in a heavy brown cloak, flaring her nostrils in outraged disgust at all she beheld. The women with their hair coming unpinned and their dresses sliding haphazardly from their shoulders, the drunkards blowing bubbles between fat, red and cracked lips as they snored quietly on the tables amidst alcohol and sizzling sausages. The disinterested glances her way, the raucous laughter, the smell of the commoner - alcohol, sweat and dirt - the language, the lewdness of feminine ankles propped carelessly upon table tops, toenails begrimed beyond reprieve.

Ginevra swayed and touched lightly with a thickly gloved hand the doorframe where she hovered. A lesser woman might have found her courage waned and retreated quickly before nausea took hold, but Ginevra was sewn with stronger mettle and after a second, and reaffirming Lasalle's presence in a quiet, dark orange corner of the tavern, she lifted her chin and strode purposefully towards the bar. For once the admiring glances of men failed to please her; perhaps it was the obscene remarks muttered under breath - though none too quietly - and the hooting that displeased her. The fact that their pooled monies could probably only purchase one of the ruby encrusted slippers which hid under her skirts more than likely played a part also.

By the time Ginevra reached the bar she was a lemon ivory with fury, daring not to say a word in retaliation, both wariness of being revealed and determination to not lower herself holding her tongue. Louis, the publican, continued only to polish a glass and laugh at some drunkard balancing a bottle upon his nose, and did not heed her quiet cough, or the suede gloved fingers which rapped imperiously upon the bar top.

Ginevra gritted her teeth. Intolerable! That a woman of her station and breeding should be so forced to enter such a disagreeable situation. She wasn't so sure she wouldn't knife the little witch after all. She rapped her fingers again, harder and Louis shot her a disinterested, wary glance.

"Can I help you?" he said to her roughly, eyes pivoting back quickly to follow the goings on of the young men, arranged in a circle with two of them playing tricks in the centre.

Ginevra bristled, and then managed to spit out "Show me to where Chaton is waiting"

She was interrupted by a shout of rude laughter from Louis and the other men, as one of the young gentleman received a mugful of beer in his face. The Vicomtesse's shoulders knotted and she hissed in through her teeth, red spots dancing in front of her eyes.

"Sorry I missed that, what did you say?" Louis said in a voice which was both amiable and rude, turning to finally face Ginevra. Greeted with the black pools of her eyes, the smirk dropped from his face and he backed up a step, watching her carefully with raised eyebrow.

"I said, show me to where Chaton is waiting." Ginevra's voice fell like jagged glass and Louis' dark lips pursed as he hurriedly pushed a few fat glasses under the bar, tossed a rag over his shoulder and beckoned with a meaty finger for her to follow him.

Somewhat gratified by what she supposed was her superiority shining through and subduing the commoner, Ginevra swung out after him, expensive skirts swishing deliciously beneath the old cloak which hid them. She kept the hood firmly pulled over her pearl-embellished head and did not look to either side as she followed Louis through the uneven maze of tables and chairs to a narrow and rickety staircase in the far wall. Truth to be told, it was the vicious blankness in her eyes which had got Louis moving. The empty coldness which signalled, as he was taught, pure evil. Bad enough he had one with the evil eye in his back room, now he had one without a soul. What had he agreed to anyway - he hoped they'd finish their business up quickly and be gone with them.

Louis drew back and motioned with a grimy hand to the stair. "Up there. First door on your left."

Ginevra did not even glance at him as she swept forward to mount the steps leading above, creaking, water stained and hollow beneath her sharp heels. Louis watched her ascend, not missing the flash of gold beneath the lining of her cape, and then turned back to the bar with a shake of his shaggy head. Bad business, he could feel it.

-----

At the top of the stair case the air lightened, though yet stained with damp, and only one tallow candle burned on a small table set a little way down the hall. The sound of the tavern below faded almost instantly, leaving a still quietness beyond. Ginevra peered into the darkness but could not see the end of the hall, then turned to the left as she had been instructed. The door there was open but a crack, a bright orange glow spilling out from behind it. Ginevra leaned forward delicately, turning one seashell ear to the crack, listening intently, straining in the dimness. She was greeted only with silence. One armed glided slowly forth, gloved fingers pushed ever so lightly against the stained, chipped oak and - an enormous creak broke the silence, the door's hinges complaining loudly as they were forced to move from their position of rest.

A light laughter erupted from the widened crack. Ginevra straightened, throwing her head back in something akin to alarm, but closer to indignation.

"Come in, Belladonna, I can hear you."

The voice was soft, strangely accented and definitely feminine. A far cry from the bestial snarls of the witch in the Town Square. Ginevra flared her nostrils and pushed the door open decisively, it gliding silently back to thud against the wall, and then she was unfastening her cloak, throwing it off her shoulders, revealing herself in a foam of purple skirts which filled the doorframe and spilled into the room, the tips of her glossy black hair almost scraping the roof. This grand entrance was not met with quite the awe it deserved; the room was scant and bare, a blazing fireplace in one corner, a table and two chairs in the other. And at one of those chairs - Ginevra's shining eyes blinked, growing used to the sudden illumination and the crackling heat of the room and squinted at her hostess, who sat and grinned at her from her seat.

She was so small! Were Ginevra's first thoughts. Just barely bigger than Rossignol, and he would doubtless outgrow her. Her hair was the same shocking red, and her eyes as bright but she sat calm and quiet, hands folded demurely in her lap, respectfully though brightly garbed and appearing doll-like in the wake of Ginevra's voluminous skirts and imposing height.

The little witch cocked her head to one side and blinked her colourful eyes at Ginevra in an inquisitive fashion as the Vicomtesse hesitated, taking in what she saw. Finally, a scornful laugh broke from her pale lips and she strode forward, towering over the little gypsy woman who continued to only blink and look up at her.

"Seat yourself, Belladonna." The witch made a graceful motion with a twinkling hand, cheap bronze jewellery littering it exotically.

"Call me by that name again and I'll see you hung." Ginevra returned in the same collected, icy voice, before gracefully seating herself upon the small, rough chair.

The gypsy witch had made an agitated movement upon Ginevra's threat, but she was quiet and calm still, leaning forward a little way to bare her teeth in a type of smile at the other woman.

"You remember me then?"

"I remember you."

"You know why you are here?"

"I have my suspicions."

"My husband has a nice ass, does he not?"

Ginevra did not answer that, but narrowed her eyes at Herlikin until they were mere black brushstrokes on her smooth face. Herlikin's smile widened smugly at the reaction and she leaned back in her chair once more, crossing her legs and crawling one toe along the wall.

"He's the envy of most of our sex, dear Vicomtesse. I have more than one enemy for having him all to myself." Ginevra remained silent, watching Herli from cold, dark eyes, Herlikin's conversational tone grating down her breastbone. "I rather fancied that's why you saw fit to have your fat coachman beat him. The nerve of a peasant, making you wet your seat like that." Was the crudity affected? Ginevra wasn't sure. "Unless of course, you simply like things like whips and submission." Herlikin's green eye sparkled at her mischievously from across the table as she closed one lid in a lewd wink. Ginevra sniffed in an amused fashion. Then she spoke.

"Or perhaps it was simply the fact I found his performance offensive, his ability sorely lacking and his impudence too far above his station, no matter the length of him."

Herlikin bristled and snapped "It's all in proportion too." Ginevra saw the means to overpower her and continued -

"How so cheap a performer could be the envy of your fellows is beyond my comprehension, but if he is 'all yours' as you say it is through no charm of your own, but that of the Devil through witchcraft. That much is clear."

Herli gritted her teeth and for a moment seemed about to fly at Ginevra, just as she had to Lasalle in the Square, but a second later and she calmed, shrinking it seemed - almost as though rage made her larger - and once again relaxed in her chair.

"Of course. My blood is Romany, therefore I consort with your Christian Devil and dance naked by the Full Moon, taking pleasure from other women."

Ginevra glared at her. "Is that your confession?"

Herlikin paused, staring at the Vicomtesse intensely, trying to discern the emotion behind the question. Then she leaned forward, clasping her ringed fingers before her and holding Ginevra's gaze.

"What would it mean to you if I said I did not believe in your Christian Devil, that he and Hell and Heaven and your God mean nothing to me and I cannot worship them simply because I have no faith in them?"

Ginevra looked at her calmly and then replied. "It would mean you are a liar."

Sparks danced in Herlikin's eyes and her lips grew pale, but still she maintained her composure.

"Believe what you will. We're not here to discuss religion, but rather the law, in particular one administrator of it. I believe you know him rather intimately, shall we call it?" The smirk had returned to her face.

"And why do you believe that?"

"Because I have, in my possession, a letter addressed to this same gentleman from the Vincennes, intercepted on its way of being delivered to this same gentleman's hand by the Vicomtesse de Vincennes's young page who upon the barest baring of teeth confessed he was delivering a message for his mistress."

"You have read the letter, I suppose?"

"Naturally."

The slightest smirk twisted the Vicomtesse's mouth.

"I know better than to suppose a woman of your depraved class could read. You are a liar."

"And yet, you are here."

The Vicomtesse was silent once more, leaning back against her chair and turning her sharp eyes to the wall. Triumphant of success, Herlikin folded her arms smugly and laughed.

"I imagine you would do much to get this letter out of my hands, eh?"

Ginevra's eyes flickered over Herlikin's bodice, but still she said nothing.

Herlikin looked down upon her bosom, and then ran her hands over it, as though searching.

"Now, now. Depraved, lying, lascivious witch though I might be, I am not stupid. The letter itself has been entrusted to a companion of mine, who has instructions to reveal its contents should I not return this evening. But you know," Herlikin rose to her feet, twitching her skirts and loosening the strings of her bodice. "You could search me if you like."

Her eyes were narrowed and sly, her smile sneering and her hip bent to one side. Herlikin was looking to antagonise, so antagonised had she been by the comments on her husband, and spurred on a little by perverse curiosity. A noblewoman who bedded every man she met - but only men?

The Vicomtesse only stared blankly at the gypsy woman for a few moments, vaguely discomforted but not understanding her implications until the strings of Herlikin's bodice were so loosened her breasts threatened to tumble out. A hot memory of the gypsy saying she took pleasure from other women flashed through her head and Ginevra drew her head back in revulsion, a dull red flush skimming across her cheeks. Herlikin's eyes bordered on gloating and Ginevra bit out harshly -

"I stoop to no such menial tasks. My guards are much more accomplished at searching gypsy women than I."

The smile ran from Herlikin's face and she snapped her bodice shut with a flourish before resuming her seat and tossing rose-scented locks back over her shoulder.

"Enough playing." The strange accent which skimmed over her words was sharp now, impatient, annoyed. "To business."

Ginevra was still, and raised an eyebrow.

"I am more than willing to give you back your letter, but I ask something in return. It is the merest trifle. It will cost you nothing."

Ginevra raised both eyebrows this time.

Herli shrugged and then continued. "Well - perhaps your pride. I will give you the letter back if you come to the Square where my husband performs, and apologise to him."

Rage pulsed so quickly through Ginevra's veins that she did not even realise it had propelled her to her feet until the gypsy woman was once again several heads below her. With flared nostrils and anger-widened eyes, the Vicomtesse did not much resemble the Madonna now; Herlikin rather thought more of the devouring Goddess Kali.

"Apologise? Apologise to you filthy scum? You say that I should apologise to your worthless bag of bones who will do France a favour the day he dies?" The words tumbled upon one another in their race to rush out and she nearly choked on them. Fury blinded her and her gloved hands scrabbled recklessly at the table top below her, as Herlikin gaped up in amazement and more than a little unease. "I'll do no such thing! Not a thing!"

"I'll reveal the letter! I swear I will!" Herlikin had jumped to her feet, temper easily struck alight by the insults to Clopin and the Vicomtesse's refusal to do as she bid. "To your husband! To your friends! To everyone!" Like a spoilt child she thumped a little fist upon the table and shook out her hair. Ginevra tossed back her head and sneered at her.

"Apologise? I? To you? I will do no such thing. But what I will do is hunt your people down one by one until I find this husband you hold so precious and then I will have his head! And if a few heads are lost until the right one is gained, then that is no loss, rather a favour to France."

Herlikin was as enraged as Ginevra now and the two stood facing each other off, one small and bright and impassioned, the other tall and pale and glowering. Fury danced on the air and fought with the heat of the fire and the room shrunk in on itself, trapping the two women in a bubble of pure energy.

"It will be your reputation!" Herlikin gasped out then hissed as Ginevra leapt forward, deigning to lower her face to the gypsy woman and spit out at her.

"Either return the letter to me, or I will see to it that every gypsy who passes through the Courts is hung. The benefits of being intimate with the law, shall we call it?"

"I'll do no such thing!" Herlikin exclaimed.

"Very well." Ginevra drew up and pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders again. "If that is how you choose it to be. We have no further business to discuss."

Leaving Herlikin sputtering angrily behind her, Ginevra left the room, storming furiously down the narrow steps and whirling out into the damp streets beyond, the chill of them startling after the raging heat of the small room. A second later and Lasalle joined her, disguised as he was in rough tunic and hose, tipping his cap hastily, then drawing back as though bitten when she turned to her with venom in her eyes.

"You were not successful, my Vicomtesse?"

"Come Lasalle, take me home." she snapped. "We've got much to do. This isn't over yet."

-----

Meanwhile Herlikin had wiggled out the small window, having decided she would not pay for use of the room, and clambered shakily down the slick, rough walls. She waved agitatedly in one of the tavern windows to where Pierre sat earnestly drinking his beer, and then snatched at his sleeves furiously when he joined her on the streets.

"What's wrong, what happened, are you pleased or angry, it's so damned hard to tell with you, Madame Passion!" he slurred dazedly at the dancing pixie before him.

"Come with me Pierre, we've got work to do. This isn't over yet!"

A half hour later a still-enraged Herlikin Trouillefou was storming through the rickety backstreets of Paris, now alone and cutting a sharp colour against the black and grey of the night. She stomped carelessly through puddles and clutched her cloak tightly at her neck and gritted her teeth as her eyes narrowed in dissatisfaction. The drunken Pierre had offered no assistance and she was more than aware, despite her aggravated state, that her husband had probably awakened and turned the Court upside down in pursuit of her. That, of course, would lead to more gossip pounding hard across the air and sly, narrow looks her way as her 'friends' the women chattered how Madame Trouillefou knew only one way to please her husband...

Having worked herself into a fine temper, it was only too easy for this line of thought to further fan the flames. Herlikin's feet stamped out a drum beat, and the cowl of her cloak fell back, fiery locks spilling out over her shoulders. She moved fast and seemingly with purpose, the scowl of her face giving her an other-worldly aura. Intimidating perhaps, but the baser districts of Paris were littered with those whose depravity made them blind to gypsy women with sharp teeth. That night, Herlikin's fury made her blind to a dangerous situation she was usually cautious of avoiding.

As she rounded a putrid corner, espying her goal - the Bells and Motley Tavern - beyond, a shadow separated itself from the mural of those which streaked the ill placed bricks and slipped out silently after her, rapidly gaining on her heels, until the hem of her worn cloak was within hand's reach - then the trailing ends of her hair - then her neck.

Her pursuer pounced, one arm pinning hers firmly to her side, a large, black-gloved hand clasping her mouth shut. Panic lurched in Herlikin's stomach, exploding through her veins in a fierce cold as she instinctively threw herself back against her attacker, convulsing violently in a half-conscious effort to tear herself away.

It happened in seconds; then the familiar scent of the man struck her nostrils and she ceased struggling as he simultaneously loosened his hold.

"Dammnit, Herli!" Clopin's voice was sharp and angry above her, and had the odd quality of sounding as though it were spoken through glass. "What the hell do you mean, wandering these streets alone at this time of the damned night? Are you really the pretty ninny they all label you in the Court?" Herlikin wrenched free from his arms and turned around on shaky feet to face him, knowing she should yell back, knowing she should slap him for frightening her, but realising only that her shoulders were beginning to shake and a second later hot tears spilled down her cheeks and Clopin's angry expression changed to one of concern as she turned to the gutter and vomited violently. Both hands moved quickly to support her by the elbows as she swooned and slumped against him.

"Clopin - " she gulped and clutched him with relief. "I thought - I thought - I thought - it was - it was - "

Clopin had hear her stammer like that once before, and thoroughly alarmed now he gripped her tight and breathed soothingly into her hair, until her sobs subsided and her trembling ceased.

"Come." he began to guide her gently away by the shoulder, scoldings and admonishing forgotten, both their tempers much sobered. "Foolish to linger out here any longer than needs be."

Meek as a kitten now, she could only nod and let herself be led back to the very appealing security of their subterranean home.

Ginevra de Vincennes set her teeth within her head and rolled her eyes venomously as her doddering husband tried to engage her in light conversation, the two having been unfortunate enough to run into one another as they followed their separate courses through the blank corridors of the Chateau. The meeting, swift as it was, did nothing to improve Ginevra's temper so that by the time she had shaken him from her, strode back to her apartments and on into her dressing room, the violence of her passion was such that a silver hairbrush was lurched savagely across the room, a rare moment of lost control.

Resenting the action, frustrated and unsatisfied, The Vicomtesse collapsed into the chair which stood at the vanity and let her face fall forward into her hands. Remaining this way for several moments, blinking against the small black, feeling the lashes of her eyes stroke against the palms of her hands, Ginevra breathed deeply until the racing of her blood slowed, and the tight brightness behind her eyes disappeared.

Sitting up with straightened shoulders and her resolve now clear in her mind, she swept calmly out from her dressing room and summoned her footman by the bellpull.

"Tell Lasalle my coach must be ready first thing in the morning." she informed the footman sharply. "I am paying a visit of high importance to the Minister of Justice and it must not be allowed to wait longer than needs be."

Followed unnervingly by a sense of discomfort, the footman bowed out swiftly to deliver the message. It was nothing unusual for him to be glad to be away from her presence, but especially so tonight. There had been a violence in her eyes, those cold pits of black marble, that had not been there before.

Back within her sitting room, the Vicomtesse sat regally before the fire whose vibrancy seemed dull in comparison to the raging flames of the small room where the Gypsy Woman had made her threats.

Threats which would come to nothing. The Vicomtesse's mouth twisted in a sneer; she not only had the will to make good upon her own -

- She had the power.


	9. Chapter 9

Herlikin awoke the next morning with a faint stickiness between her legs. Raising her head, which felt heavy and dull, blearily from the pillows she lifted the sheepskin and linen coverings to peek her face beneath. The tangy metallic scent of blood smacked her nostrils and she let her head slump back on the pillows with a tired groan. Before she could muster the energy to clamber from the bed, however, Clopin awoke beside her and immediately turned to where she lay. Herli langoured in his kisses for a few moments and then stopped his hand.

"It's my time with the Moon." she explained to his questioning look and he echoed her groan of moments before and lay his head down on her bosom. They lay in silence for a few moments, Herli's fingers idly stroking his hair, until with a sudden burst of energy, Clopin leapt up and hopped out of bed. Herlikin was slower to rise, already the waves of nausea had begun their trawl through her stomach, but once up she was very quick to swallow a large mixture of red wine and herbs. Clopin looked at her bloodstained thighs with curiosity as he always did; he was not frightened or repulsed by the bleeding as other men were, though perhaps even he didn't understand it, but Herli knew he would never have dared to look with any of the women who had come before her. The attitude towards menstruation was becoming increasingly superstitious and fearful; Clopin had mentioned once how the men had spoken of the dangers that lay within the blood.

"Now, what ridiculous nonsense is that? If there were no blood, there'd be no babbies!" Herli had scoffed disdainfully and Clopin had jerked his thin shoulders up and then down again.

"They think that blood not used to give life can only bring death."

"Rubbish!" Herli had snorted again, but had found herself no supporters amongst the women. Sometimes she wondered if they were truly all of the same blood; her upbringing had taught her an entirely different respect for her fertility - such as it was - and Herlikin was once again a frustrated outsider, certain of her own truths just as her female companions were certain their blood made them marhime.

She left the tent to bathe, wrapped thickly in her robe and wraps of wool, and delighted in the sensations of hot, soapy water poured lushly over her breasts and belly. Then she went over the events of the previous evening.

The words of the Vicomtesse danced in her belly amidst the cramps, making her feel even more ill at ease. "I will see to it that every gypsy who passes through the Courts is hung." The Vicomtesse's words. They hung in the back of her ear, repeating themselves in a rumbling echo which grew steadily sharper, the woman's icy hard eyes boring into Herlikin's very heart, seeing the doubt there. She must've seen the tremor in Herlikin's hand, heard that faint stammer in her voice as she'd laid down her ultimatum for the Vicomtesse to consider. That is why she threatened what she had. The Vicomtesse was more astute than Herli had given her credit for. But what she claimed to be able to do was impossible; no mortal man would hang just anyone on the words of a mere woman.

Then again - Herlikin was not entirely convinced of Claude Frollo's mortality.

Herli scrubbed the unease from her breast and shook her head vigorously, clambering out of the bath as the water rushed off her in a torrent. It was impossible. They could not hang anyone, not even the rom, for no reason at all. Herli pulled a piece of linen between her legs and fastened it firmly around her waist, then rubbed jasmine oil over her breasts and belly, sprinkling it on her hair. It was an empty threat, the empty threat of an empty woman fearful of her reputation, over confident in her power. Herli had nothing to worry about. She would contact the Vicomtesse again in a week's time, enough time for the vicious bitch to come to her senses, then she would get her husband's apology. Herlikin left the bathing tents and hurried back to her home, humming pleasantly underneath her breath. The pain had subsided, she was clean and warm and dressed cheerfully in green, better still - she was certain of success. Close by. Clopin was just putting the final touches on his performance garb, pulling on his belled shoes, when his wife danced into the tent again, sweet scented and smiling and he leaned back in his chair and grinned at her.

"Better, sweet kitten?" he questioned, holding out an arm for her to snuggle under on his lap.

"Mmmm." she agreed, pushing her head beneath his chin. "For now, at any rate. Must you go out today?"

He chuckled into her hair. "Yes, I must. That is, if you would like to eat for the week."

She sighed resignedly and stood up, holding out a hand to him. "Miss me."

He winked at her, and took the hand she offered, standing. "I always do."

He pulled her into his arms for a kiss, and she revelled in the lean strength of his arms about her, her few moments of weakness were always spent like this. Then he was gone, bowing out of their tent with an exuberant flourish of his feathered hat, and she listened to the pad-pad of his shoes as he danced out of the Court, with a small smile.

The day idled by uneventfully. She fed her children and bathed them, telling stories to her two youngest, seeing her two eldest off to play with their companions in the Court Centre. She cleaned the tent and set her two babbies on the cushions there to play with each other, pausing a moment to observe her son Clopin, who was telling the most remarkable stories to his binak, with a wondering look. Then she set about preparing dinner. Carrots, turnips, potatoes and bread for herself. The same, with the added luxury of beef, for her family. Clopin had insisted the children be raised on meat. At least he had not forced her to it.

"...no longer did the gentleman fret, for he had found the truest love with the doe, who was the most beautiful creature the gentleman had ever laid eyes upon. They lived together in the forest, and after a year of joy the doe gave birth to their child, a blessed son whose forehead was crowned with a single beautiful horn of ivory..."

Ahvel clapped his hands and laughed in delight, as he always did when Herlikin reached this part of the tale, an old Indian paramitsha, and her son Clopin petted his binak's hair. Herlikin smiled from where she sat at the stove and took a breath, preparing to continue. Before a word could leave her lips her husband swept into the tent, wrenching his mask from his face and turning to her with intensity furrowing his brow. Ahvel had leapt up to greet his papa with delight, and even the younger Clopin had grinned and waved a small hand. But Clopin, who usually tore his children into his arms and immediately began play with them, only ran his hands through their dark hair distractedly, then rubbed an agitated hand on his chin, sighing.

"What's wrong, love?" Herli was slightly alarmed by his demeanour, watching him cautiously where he stood in the centre of the tent, hand on his chin, the other on his hip and frowning hard. He started, her words drawing him back to his surroundings and then sighed once more, coming over to the cushions she sat upon next to the stove, running a hand through her hair.

"Three of the women were hung today." he informed her quietly, and Herli's hand froze in midair over the stove. A second later and she regained her composure, moving the vegetables from the direct flame, clinging to the handle of the pan tightly so as to disguise the tremble in her hands.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked quietly and Clopin knelt down beside her, massaging his forehead, pulling his pipe out of a concealed pocket.

"It was entirely unexpected." he explained. "There had been no announcement, no warning. All of a sudden, three Roman were led up onto the scaffold, the Minister made a short statement, and the stools were kicked out."

Herlikin was silent for several moments, glad she was turned mostly to the stove so that her husband could not see her face. The flames from the small fire caused a slight sweat to break out on her upperlip. Behind then Ahvel was clambering off the cushions to come and sit on his papa's knee and pull his goatee, but Herlikin turned sharply and told him to stay where he was. Her son fell back with a start and looked at them in confusion, pulling on his toes with a pouting lower lip as his binak crept up to his side to watch his parent's with dark eyes.

"Who could believe a crowd could gather so quickly?" Clopin's voice was bitter. "The square was full to the brim in moments, all of them jumping over one another to move in closer and feast their eyes on purple faces."

Herlikin took a breath, and leaned back against the cushions. "Was it - was it anyone we know?"

Not noticing the tremor beneath her words Clopin wrapped an arm about her shoulders and puffed unhappily on his pipe. "No, thankfully, lune. Just three unhappy roman women."

Herli gasped a little and turned to her husband, burying her face in his chest, clinging to his tunic doggedly, inhaling a breath to take in the sharp scent of his perspiration. "But - but why? Why were they - " she drew up short and Clopin pulled a consoling hand through her hair, cradling the base of her head, a little bewildered at her distress, so much greater than normal when greeted with a gypsy hanging, but not questioning. He was too agitated over the events of the day, the hanging he had not known about.

"Robbery, or so the Minister said. Apparently they thieved a noblewoman's carriage, in company with four rom - so you can now imagine, the hunt is on for these idiot men, and their fate will be doubtless the same."

Herlikin's head swam and she sat back. She had to change the linen between her legs. The blood flow was heavy and it was making her light-headed. The women who were hung - it had to be coincidence. They must've been in the dungeons for a week at least. It was coincidence. Clopin ran a black gloved hand through his hair and then looked at his wife curiously, clenching his pipe between his teeth as he yanked off his gloves and tossed them over his shoulder.

"What's wrong, kitten? You're as white as a doppelganger. Are you so distressed by my news?"

No. She wasn't. She never was. She was ill, that was all. "No, love, have you forgotten already I am bleeding?"

He clucked sympathetically and cuddled her once more before rising to his feet and shaking off his gloom to smile at his sons and leap onto the cushions beside them. They raised their arms in a cheer from where they had curiously observed their unusually sombre parents. He pulled them into his arms and kissed both their faces as Ahvel tugged at his ear and Clopin smiled at his papa.

Herlikin turned the beef, watching the bright red of it turn slowly grey, then brown, its juices hissing and sizzling in the pan as the fire worked busily away beneath it. The cramps had begun to set in again, stirring nausea within her belly.

-----

Ginevra de Vincennes hummed a little melody beneath her breath as she read over the slim volumes of poetry which had emerged from within her fingertips in happier days. The day had been, so far as the Vicomtesse was concerned, an immense success, and the week coming could only promise more of the same very pleasing results. It had been worth it, seeing Claude before she had intended, going to him as opposed to his giving in to her. And hadn't the snideness on his lips been stolen away when he had discovered her motives for coming? Hadn't the triumphant light flickered and died within his steel grey eyes when she had stood before him, her face as smooth as the marble Madonna in the Cathedral, and explained quite simply, in cold, impersonal speech, the nature of her visit?

Wasn't that, in a way, another victory for Ginevra?

Well, yes.

Ginevra's mouth twitched in the effort to withhold the smug smile from her face as Rossignol's fingers tinkled with incomparable loveliness over the strings of his harp once more, the notes as pure and fine as crystal shimmering on the air between them, his round blue eyes fixed on her with a slavish intensity of desire, of fear. She did not cast him even a sidewards glance from beneath her lids, but perched on the edge of her settee, her breath rising in short gasps as Rossignol's melody crescendoed, travelled upwards in ever lightening scales, the curve of the Vicomtesse's breast over her bodice, the smooth white slope of her neck and the moist shimmer of her black eyes from beneath her lowered lids spurring his melody onwards. A delicious victory. The kind of victory she once would have celebrated in words, sparkling wit and irresistibly charming meter, the clever rhymes which aroused in so many both admiration and envy. In Italy - ah it would have poured from her before she could stop it. The Vicomtesse's fingers twitched and she gasped again, a sharp intake of breath she silenced in grasping her round lower lip with her teeth. Her fingers twitched again, the deep burgundy of the jaspar flashing a brilliant red and entwining her hands in her velvet skirts she forced herself to settle back against the cushions. Let it come, let it come, don't force it, like in the old days. They would just come.

It was coming. The words were there, swimming around just behind her eyes, blurry yet. Let them form, let them take shape and then transpose them to paper. Ginevra di Cavalcanti was not a dead woman yet. The Vicomtesse took another breath and sat forward calmly, her black lashes resting gentle against her cheeks. Calmly she reached for the quill in its ink stand, ever by her hand, and shook the tip gently against the bottle, so that the ink would not drip. Calmly, she reached with her other hand for the paper which rested ever by the ink. Another breath, the gentle whisper of velvet skirts and the soft chink of pearls knocking against knots of gold, and then the Vicomtesse opened her eyes and lifted quill to paper.

The nib broke, tearing a great smear of ink across the ivory white, rendering both useless. For a moment the Vicomtesse sat, transfixed, her eyes widening as they devoured the flesh they were set in, and then she let out a cry of agitation and swept the paper from the desk, her twitching fingers finding their way to the shining cap of hair, tangled themselves in the net of pears as the Vicomtesse gazed hollowly at the golden oak of the table before her.

Rossignol's melody had fallen once more to less ambitious efforts, more subdued chords, sweet still and charming, but lacking the euphoria of the previous. Ginevra pulled her hands from her head, straightened her skirts and the large jaspar ring upon her finger, and reflected over the day's events.

-----

She had arrived at the Palace of Justice early, as she had planned, and had immediately demanded an audience of Claude Frollo. The guards knew her; she was something of a regular guest to the Palace, and certainly a powerful one, and had at once gone without question to notify the Minister of her arrival. She had felt more than a little sour to be informed that the Minister was receiving no guests that morning. Boring into the guard's watery brown eyes with her marble-hard black ones she had told him to inform the Minister that it was a matter of extreme emergency regarding the Romany, and that to send her away without having seen justice done would not set the aristocracy of Paris at ease; they were all in danger.

He had hesitated a moment and then bowed out, leaving the Vicomtesse alone in the echoing depth of the great hallway, its old gothic pillars and twisting staircases twirling out around her.

Barely five minutes passed before the guard returned once more, hurrying down the wide marble stairs to where she waited, and following him regally, a towering vision in fine black velvet, the icy pallor of his face gleaming slightly in the gloom which deepened as the stairs rose, was Claude Frollo.

The one man in the entirety of Ginevra's life who had held her attention, captured it, in fact. The one man who could be said to wield an iotum of true power over her person. Who could influence her thoughts and actions, as much as anyone could influence them.

Who impassioned her and who had brought her to the heights of the deepest ecstasy she had ever known, who had infuriated her and sent her plummeting into the depths of the most intense anger she had ever experienced.

She was not here as his lover on this day. She met the perfect grey of the gleaming eyes set deep within his skull calmly and without outside emotion. Her gaze followed his unflinchingly as he descended the stairs to stand by her side and when she held out her hand for him to take it and incline his head gracefully forward, it was with all the quality of an indifferent stranger following the motions of propriety. He'd arched a grey eyebrow and looked at her with a tight mouth before dismissing the guard and gesturing they should adjourn.

"Now, Vicomtesse de Vincennes, pray tell whatever is this emergency you speak of?" he'd questioned her as they drew into a large slate grey room, hung sombrely with burgundy drapings and ornamented scarcely with heavy dark-oak furniture, pale light filtering weakly through heavy leaded windows.

'Vicomtesse de Vincennes'. Ginevra kept the sneer from her mouth. Behind fastened doors they had always been very much on a name to name basis. Beneath his question there had been the barest skim of mockery; he thought she had devised this ploy as a means to see him, to be near him, smelling the dusky scent of books and wine, to listen to the words in their icy-grey tones fall neatly from his mouth, to see - to see the sculpted face and hands, fine and elegant, bone white with the skin pulled tight and fine. The cruel joy she had experienced when she'd replied had been difficult to keep hidden.

"Have you any gypsy women in the dungeons at present, 'Minister Frollo'?"

He'd started just slightly where he stood with his back to her, silhouetted in front of one of the tall, silvery windows, one hand outstretched lightly on the back of a chair so that the two great rings which adorned it shimmered slightly in the half light. Having not received an answer Ginevera strode forward, her deep violet skirts rustling before her, and had stopped just short of him, knowing the heavy scent of her perfume must waft forward and dance beneath his nostrils. "Minister Frollo, it is of the greatest importance you answer me, if you please. Have you any gypsy women in the dungeons at present?"

He'd turned to her then, his face as impervious and rock hard as her own and had inclined his head forward slightly.

"Our dungeons are always choked to the brim with the most depraved of humanity; as such there is always a gypsy woman or two within them."

There was a curiousness deep set in his gaze and Ginevra thought quickly.

"Two? Perhaps three, even?"

He finally faced her front on, turning his whole, lean body to face hers and had steepled his fingers in front of him, thin fingertips meeting and melting together.

"Yes. Three, even."

"A group of gypsy thieves accosted me and my carriage on the roads just beyond the border of my chateau last week. I am in search of the guilty ones - three women and four men. May I trouble you to bring these women before me so that I might determine whether they were amongst those who attacked and robbed me?"

Claude Frollo's fine grey eyebrows had shot up in his head, the pale flesh of his forehead folding tightly over them. But he only blinked once and nodded in acquiescent.

"Of course."

Their shoes had padded swiftly together in a pulsing tempo as they made their way through the corridors and into the Court House. The guards were summoned. Instructions were given. Scant moments later a group of five dirty, frightened and confused Romany were brought in and told to line up before the noblewoman and be sure to stay in their place.

Blinking their eyes against the harshness of the light they had all but forgotten during their stay in the putrid straw of the Palace of Justice's dungeons, they had clawed at their rags and held them together, half turning to each other in the need for solace, whispering harsh prayers to the spirits as the Vicomtesse de Vincennes towered before them, an imposing vision in dark violet and amethysts, shimmering and splendid as the goddess from the old tales.

Frollo cleared his throat politely at her elbow, and made a sweeping gesture with a slim hand

to the women in the docks before them.

"These women were all brought in within the last week, Vicomtesse. I am assuming that the incident was recent?"

Ginevra nodded curtly, not so much as turning her head to him but continuing to stare at the five dark skinned women before her. "Last week."

Claude sniffed softly and ran a critical eye over the sleeve of his long tunic before dusting it off lightly. "Why ever did you not come to us immediately?"

Ginevra ignored the smug tone of his voice. "They threatened my life. I was frightened."

No one, hearing the flat, expressionless voice those words were uttered in, would have believed her.

"Ah!" Frollo proclaimed in a soft tone of understanding. "I see. And are the women who accosted you before you today?"

The barest hint of a smile ran over Ginevra's white lips. "Of course."

"Of course." he echoed breathily by her ear and she stabbed him a look.

"The three in the middle" she proclaimed sharply, and the guards leapt forward to wrench the other two away, to push the three unfortunates forward who cried out in confusion, raising their hands in distress at having their bare arms touched by a man, who turned with red rimmed and watering eyes to where the Minister and the Vicomtesse stood, stone still and glaring at them with outraged expressions on their sharp faces.

As the Minister made the accusation in a cold monotone they cried and wept, denying it of course - she had expected no less from them - and pleaded for mercy. Again and again they claimed they had not even known each other prior to incarceration, that they did not know the Vicomtesse, that they were innocent of this crime!

The Minister's lip curled as he listened to what was certainly lies and then agreed to Ginevra's quiet whisper that sentence should be carried out immediately.

Ripped from the flagstones, the women were led to the Town Square, the Minister and the Vicomtesse following in Frollo's large, looming carriage, and she had watched with the gleam of satisfaction in her black eyes as the women were bound tightly, the nooses were set in place and the stools one by one kicked out from under their feet, their legs wresting helplessly at the air for long, heavy seconds before ceasing to move at all.

Then she'd turned with concealed delight to where the crowd had gathered, filling the Square, all of them gazing in wonder at the hanged women, gossip already caught its light and spreading like wildfire.

Ginevra opened her eyes once more and smiled again from the warmth of her settee as Rossignol paused in his playing and silence broke the air. Yes, the day had indeed been a success.

And there were yet four men to be found.


	10. Chapter 10

There was tension in the Court of Miracles.

Debates had raged fierce as to whether the women hung had committed the crimes of which they had been accused. Those who believed them guilty declared the women had paid for their foolishness and they who made an honest living should stay out of it. Those who believed them innocent declared it was another example of prejudice on behalf of the gadje and something must certainly be done about it. Then they were those who considered the crime a possibility, but one the guilty parties - if they were such - were almost certainly driven to by the bastard gadje.

All rom wanted to know why Clopin had not been aware of the incident before it took place.

To this demand, Clopin could offer no satisfactory explanation; he had been taken as unawares as had they all. Rigorous questioning of his spies had turned up nought. Of this hanging, seemingly not a whisper had been uttered before the hour it took place.

Clopin was a popular King for the most part, and as the rom had milled together in a chattering herd in the Centre when he announced in his distinct, strong voice that a meeting was to be held, most were willing to hear what he had to say and believe it. But all Kings have their adversaries, and though in Clopin's particular case they were few, they spoke loud and determinedly. The Rom of the Court of Miracles were a close knit society, having had to survive as they did very much relying upon each other. The majority of its inhabitants had settled down as few rom did, had been in the Court for years and knew their neighbour's grandparents, children and children's favourite mongrel. A web of trust encased them firmly and solidly and anything, no matter how slight, which poked a whole in that shell, would doubtless cause unease.

Rom hangings were not unusual. Clopin and his men could not deliver all who passed through the Palace of Justice from the descent to death. What was unusual was that Clopin had not known of it. That nothing had been said, no effort made, no warning given. That three omni, effectively under Clopin's care whilst within the walls of Paris, had been walked to the scaffolds, and carried away from them. That they had been hung under accusation of a crime which no rom, despite the healthy underground chain of information which passed from kumpania to kumpania with the rapidity of fire, had heard of. The rom felt that somewhere there had been a breach of trust. Jilted lovers and jealous fellows took advantage of it, speaking over the top of Clopin as he attempted to soothe his people, demanding to know if Clopin had not known, as he claimed, of the hanging, why was that? Were regular spies not being sent out for some reason? Was something being kept from them? The repeated and loudly proclaimed questions stirred the most excitable of the others and awakened uncomfortable feelings of doubt within them. The Court Centre rapidly became a bubbling stew of objections and questions, hurtled one at the other until the Rom were heatedly arguing amongst themselves, forgetting the reason they had come to the Centre in the first place.

Clopin had exploded with frustration and rage inwardly, longing to throw his hat down and storm out, leaving them to slaughter each other. Times like this he wanted to turn the Court over to insanity, to make a mockery of the gaje palaces with Lords and Ladies and footmen and maids, to hang and torture at will, to have all subservient to his whim - sometimes he wondered idly if it would work. More than likely, not. Not only because the rom would not tolerate it, but because Clopin himself couldn't. To build of the Court a place of give and take, respect and friendship - that was what Clopin could be proud of. It ensured his posterity, gave him opportunity to thumb his nose at the gaje and their boy-loving priests, their inbred Kings, continually fearing assassination. Where possible, the wrung necks of a few gaje was a good example too, proof that the society his people had built for themselves beneath the earth worked far better than the system above it, and that no matter their interference the rom were able to maintain stability and wield out justice effectively.

Having taken three or four deep breaths upon the stage-cum-gallows, Clopin had pushed his hat up high on his brown forehead and gestured widely at the sea of faces before him.

"Come, come, come, my friends!" his clear voice rose high above the babbling murmurs and the effect on the crowd was as when the curtains rose on the stage; the hush spread. "The loss of our sisters and wives is a great misfortune, and it is my suspicion they were falsely accused, but this should no cause dissention amongst us all. Why so secretive and sudden a hanging took place, I can, at this time offer no explanation. It may very well be some form of action is required, but I will need more information before I can make any decisions. I would ask that all of you be alert in the coming weeks, report back any rumours, new arrivals, gossip, information - anything that should come to your attention - to me, and leave me to deal with it. That is all."

Before anyone could comment, he tipped the brim of his hat down again and strode quickly from the platform, lanky legs leaping lightly down the stairs and out of the Court. The rom lingered moments, then dispersed, speaking quietly amongst themselves. Clopin's words had brought them back to the matter at hand, his abruptness had startled them, and there had no longer seemed reason to linger and argue; the situation was known and they had been given tasks to do. Those who remained dissatisfied, ineffectually attempting to stir up trouble once more, were told by tired wives with whining babbies and wrinkled old men who coughed into their beards and licked their lips as they headed toward the benches for wine, to do as Clopin said and investigate the matter, if they really wanted to do anything at all.

Back in his tent, Clopin had tossed his hat down and sighed wearily into his hands, the scent of paint and tobacco from his gloves almost stifling.

-----

Herlikin's oddly coloured eyes strained in the dim-light of her tent as she wound the leather cords over and under one another, twisting them into an elaborate, beautiful pattern. Similar examples of the craft were on display around her tent; a leather matt, embroidery on a satchel, cords - jewellery even. Herli had begun the craft during her second pregnancy, the binak conceived the day the sorely-missed Francoise had gone, when she'd been confined for the nine months of the carry and a further seven after the birth deep down below the world in the Court of Miracles. Since coming to the Court as a bride of sixteen, Herlikin had played a major role in almost every theatrical performance the Rom had put on; she considered it her compensation for not running wild on the streets, clumsily playing the lyre and performing stunts worthy of the term "witchcraft!" with her animal companions. There was so much Herli wanted to do and could not.

But that year Mertshak had had to stage the play without her - some things Clopin remained firm on and performance of any nature during pregnancy - even if the babby was not yet visible beneath her skirts and petticoats - was one of them. Herlikin knew he had her health in mind, considering her past difficulties, but it had done nothing to cool the fire of frustration beating hard within her. After a heated tantrum in which pots, pans, and a much beloved unicorn statue had been hurled at her apologetic, but insistent, husband's head (the latter resulting in more impassioned tears when it broke) Herlikin had resigned herself to the inevitable and had spent the first month of the pregnancy storming about the Court in a sulk of restlessness. She'd refused to have anything to do with the other women until the relentlessly cheerful and terminally good-natured newcomer Vadoma had continued to poke her head into Herlikin's tent. Herlikin had relented and invited her in one day, with the goal of dropping a saucepan on her head, but that plot had been thwarted when Vadoma had seated herself with a plonk on the cushions, skirts spilling out around her, and had whipped from her posoti strips of leather which she had begun to bind. Herlikin had been eager to learn; it was a challenge that occupied her mind, eyes and hands all as well as being an artistic craft resulting in objects of beauty.

Clopin had heaved a sigh of relief when he'd seen his peppery-tempered wife so constructively subdued, a sigh which had turned to one of annoyance as the preparation of his dinner was forsaken so that she might finish whatever pretty piece of work she had begun. Once or twice, as an act of protest, Clopin had sought his sustenance elsewhere, but Herli's wounded pride had proved a force to be reckoned with. And so, he had stated he would begin the dinner himself, burning a finger or two, spilling a jar of herbs, clattering pots and pans about until Herli, with an aggravated grimace, would toss aside her crafts and take up the dinner herself, with the haughty air of a superior whilst Clopin would smile to himself and recline upon the cushions. But Clopin had been called away an hour earlier.

Herli knew she should light more candles, and relieve the strain on her eyes, but she remained where she was, continuing to quickly plait the leather. To break her concentration would send her thoughts spiralling down less than pleasant roads. A week had passed since Clopin had held the meeting in the Court Centre, and a gypsy man had been arrested, accused of being a part of the gang which had thieved the noblewoman. Odette, one of Clopin's most light-footed spies, had brought the news to their tent, and her husband had leapt to his feet immediately, putting on his hat and leading the way out, with the terse instruction to Herlikin to remain where she was. And she had, her heart thumping hard and rising sickeningly to her throat. Her time with the moon had passed and she no longer bled. There was nothing to attribute the wave of nausea which had struck her to, nothing exception the emotion she felt most reluctantly - guilt.

She resented the guilt, invading her mind as it did and making her discomfort pronounced. That it distracted her from her home and her husband and her children, made her restless and irritable. She resented it also because she knew it was justly felt. That she was responsible for the death of those four innocent women, and the imminent death of an innocent man. Herlikin was not a soft-hearted woman when it came to the wide world. So long as she and her family were safe and happy she did not much care for the rest of humanity. Sometimes, of course, the happiness of her family depended on the comfort of the people around her - but, in the end, Herlikin far preferred a general content than otherwise.

For all of Herlikin's faults, she did not care to be responsible for the death of innocents. Love had cooled her callousness and she'd known the gentleman arrested that day, and that he had a young wife besides. She tugged at the leather in her hands too hard and twisted a finger. Yelping a little, she tossed the craft to her side and nestled back against the cushions, eyebrows knotting a little in worry. She couldn't relent now. She couldn't give in to the bitch aristocrat and let her win. Even if it meant - no, every fibre of her being screamed to hold fast. She couldn't kill every gypsy in Paris, it was a ridiculous notion. Herlikin should not give in. She would force the Vicomtesse to surrender with her silence. What then, could be done about this one? Clopin would devise a means to save him, surely. He could do it so often, and they had had ample time on this occasion. Herli's soft, bejewelled hands prowled around the tassels and trimmings of the cushions scattered about her, feeling for the beginnings of the girdle she'd abandoned but moments ago. Every rom on the streets ran the risk of being falsely accused and arrested; she could hardly be held responsible if the other were unable to infiltrate the palace dungeons.

Yet her fingers fumbled as they resumed work, the weaving took her twice as long and the cords slipped time and time again. With a sulky sob she once again tossed the work from her, it knocking over a small brass dish of incense on its passage across the tent. The heavy scent of sandalwood broke onto the air and set about staining an elaborately patterned rug beneath it. Herlikin's head flopped forward into her hands as the kettle over the stove near the tent flap began to whistle shrilly. Sighing, she pulled herself to her feet, the single skirt she always wore in the tent (and was forbidden from wearing beyond it) hitched up and knotted between her legs, an old bodice from younger years before childbirth had swelled her breasts tied loosely in front, with nothing on underneath. It was bad manners for rom men to enter the tent where a woman lived, so Herlikin felt secure in her chosen dress, the sun and moon pendant she always wore falling into the cleft of her bosom, and her hair tumbling free and tangled over her freckled shoulders and back. Everything about Herlikin glimmered as she moved, not merely where the light caught on the bronze and brass of her jewellery, but from the paler sheen of the skin on her inner arms, from her odd-coloured eyes, constantly moving and reflecting, from her hair even, as it snaked in on itself and danced restlessly on the air. There was an aura of barely-controlled life about her, as though everything she had the potential, and desire, to be was straining at the skin which contained it to be let out - ! To burst free from the ill-chosen body of a European omni-woman, born in the fifteenth century. Perhaps that was why Herlikin's eggs caught fire with such difficulty, and burned out with such rapidity; that crimson life-force raced through her veins with such restlessness it could not concentrate itself, and when it did it poured in too much for the fragile foetus to handle in its effort to escape.

As Herlikin bent to clean up the mess the incense had spilt over her rug and move from the kettle from the direct heat of the flame, condensation from the steam clinging like spider web to the Indian ornaments arranged nearby, Clopin returned.

He did tug at her hair or sit down, just strode to the centre of the tent and whirled around, rubbing his goatee thoughtfully, gaze distracted. His typical actions upon arriving home when he had cause for worry. Herlikin turned around on her knees to face him, the bowl of incense still clutched in one hand, dusting the other off on her old skirt vigorously, peering at her husband with concerned eyes. After scratching his chin a moment more, then sighing once, he turned to his wife with a weary half-smile.

"Grofo was not in the Palace Dungeons."

Herlikin shivered a little. If the City Officials expected an uprising of any sort, prisoners were held elsewhere. She reached up to set the bowl back upon the table, then crawled towards her husband in the attitude of a cat as he took his seat in the large cushioned chair at the centre of the tent, kicking off his shoes and placing his hat asides. He bent down to place a soft kiss on her lips, then leant back, pulling his tunic up and over his head, tossing it aside and folding his arms behind his neck as Herlikin rested her head on his knee. They sat in silence for a few moments as the stove flames crackled and Clopin's body gradually untensed, both of them mulling over this new development. After a spell, one of Clopin's elegant hands left its place behind his neck and moved to fondle Herli's head, pulling up strands of hair between his fingers and contemplating her quietly.

"We found out who the attacked noblewoman was." he announced suddenly. Herli sat up, looking up at him in sudden uneasiness.

"You did? Who?"

A wry grin twisted his mouth and his brows came forward to give him a curious expression of irony. "Why, none other than your friend, the Vicomtesse de Vincennes."

Herli's blood turned to ice and for a moment her breath stuck in her throat, but she did not hesitate. "de Vincennes? She has decided your humiliation was not enough, then?"

One black eyebrow shot up his forehead, the fine lines which had just begun appearing in the last year accentuated by the movement. "Is that what you think? One wonders why she would bother."

His deep black eyes bore into her, the only similarity to his wife's being the life that flickered within them - except that whereas in hers it was deep-set and dark apart from their moments alone together, his sparkled forth always, carefree and secure. Herlikin merely stared back at him with her own bright pair, and said nothing.

Clopin chuckled a little and tossed his gloves away with sudden abandonment, before reaching down yo grasp his little wife by the arms and haul her onto his lap, hitching her skirt up even higher over her thighs, large hands slipping around her waist.

"Ah, kitten...your poor husband has had a hard week of it, and I know you have too. Was it especially hard on you this time?"

Staring into his chest, Herli bit her lip and nodded just a little. His hands moved up to caress her shoulders warmly, his skin brushed bronze by the candlelight, hers brushed pink. "Little one." he said tenderly and nudged her head to tilt up to his. He met her in a kiss as his long fingers fiddled a little with the strings on her bodice. "I need you for a little while now, Herli." he said softly, bending his head to her neck. "It is always as though your time takes you a few steps away from me, this place I cannot go to. And now - now. I know that you are the only one I can trust without caution."

"Oh Clopin." Herlikin wrapped arms around her husband's neck and breathed him in deeply. Tears had unnerved her by darting up behind her eyes and threatening to break free, and she let Clopin's embrace cradle her securely for several warm moments before turning her face to meet his. "I need you too."

-----

When she was eleven years old, Ginevra had been bitten by a horse.

Not just any horse, but the same thoroughbred black stallion given to her for her ninth birthday from the papa who had seen the same black depths in the horses' eyes as in his daughter's own. Ginevra had been riding since the age of seven and was no stranger to horses, but no friend to them either. The beasts were skittish and disobedient when the child was in the stables, with her sullen, white face and intimidating voice, and the magnificent stallion had been no exception.

As she had been taught to do, Ginevra was stroking the long, silken muzzle of the horse as the stable boys saddled him. Her eyes looked beyond the beast, outside at the wide stretches of green and gold, fields dotted with daffodils, the joyous beauty of it all skimming her eyes; it was the openness of it that enticed her, the prospect of galloping straight across it with no one to tell her to stop. Again and again her soft, white hand had risen to lay a harsh stroke along the horse's fine nose. It was exactly as she had been taught to do, and the beast had sensed it. There was no love emanating from the pretty white palm, as there was from the rough, brown ones of the stableboys, no consideration or fellowship, it was placation, a 'stay still, beast, so that I can gallop you until your mouth foams". Agitated, he'd turned his head in a jerk, with the aim of tossing her hand from him. She slapped him over the jowls, and in retaliation he'd bitten the soft, fine hand.

The young Ginevra had not shrieked or cried out, but skittered back, clenching the rapidly swelling hand furiously, eyes blazing at the horse and teeth bared. The stableboys had rushed immediately to her aid, hustling the child up and out of the stables to seek medical care, but Ginevra, still a glare of fury pinching her features, had turned to fix one last gaze of utter hatred at the beast who trembled nervously beneath his saddle blankets.

The bite had not broken the delicate flesh, though the hand was a vivid purple for the next week before fading to a sick-looking yellow, but Ginevra had been unable to abide the insult. She'd ordered the horse whipped to death.

The stablemen loved the horses, but they knew a stableman who would not follow the orders of his mistress would not find a job elsewhere. They'd lashed the horse to the beam structure of the large, open stables on the di Cavalcanti estate one chilly, rainy day, and the Italian girl had been accompanied by her tutor to watch. The man chosen for the job was new to the Di Cavalcanti stables, but well learned to the cruelty of the aristocrat; still, the sight of the icy determination on the girl's face - a strange mixture of calm, venom and absolute righteousness - had caused a tremor to go through him and he'd averted his eyes hastily, hoping he would be long gone, or that the child would be married off, before she reached an age to take over the estate.

As the sky opened up and the rains poured down in the fields beyond the stables, the whipping had begun. Ginevra did not blink as the lashes were brought down again and again on the stallion's beautiful, shiny black hide and the horse reared again and again against his bonds. The flesh split and tore, like a jacket pulled apart at the seams, and the horse was whinnying in fright, foam dripping from his jaw, the whites of his eyes stark against the violent black of his coat. The stableman was sweating, and his tears were mingling with it, but he dared not stop, or even turn around, for Ginevra's round black stones bid his arm up, and down over and over.

The horse, frenzied by pain and fear into madness, reared up on its hind legs, and with a terrific burst of strength, neck muscles bulging at the flesh, had snapped the bridle binding it tight. Outraged at the rebellion, Ginevra had risen to her feet and started forward, wrenching free from the quivering fingers of her tutor and had shouted for the men to catch a hold of the beast and bind it down again. Hearing the voice of his tormentor, the horse had kicked back in a panic, one brilliantly shod hoof finding its mark, pummelling the girl halfway across the stables. Finding a kind of courage in the horse's defence, the old stableman had taken up a cross bow and put an arrow through the beast's head, by this stage not caring if it meant his job. A hundred hurried hands had set upon Ginevra, and lifted her from the stables, leaving straw stained red behind them.

She survived of course, but the doctor had been certain. She would have no children.

Someone had neglected to mention this to Henri upon their betrothal.

It hardly mattered. The weaker, older man was far too absorbed in his own life to pay much attention to the cycles - or lack thereof - of his wife. They shared they marriage bed but a scant, few times and other than that had let each other be. Henri had perhaps expected a child or two from the marriage, that was an important reason why people got married after all, but a couple of months with the cold, aloof tower or marbled femineity and he'd turned his attentions elsewhere. So frigid did the Vicomtesse appear to him in fact, that he had been somewhat surprised to find no trace of blood on the sheets after their first union - and then, not so surprised. He had said nothing, knowing he had been cheated, but unwilling to meet the challenge presented in the cold, stone eyes of the woman he had married.

Ginevra's mother, oddly enough, had felt a strange twist of relief that so convenient an excuse for sterility had provided itself. At ten, Ginevra's breast and hips had begun to swell, body hair had appeared, and menstruation had begun. But the cycles had been irregular and weak, pale red spots which flecked the linen placed to capture it for a day or so and then stopped. As though the lifeblood could not spare itself. Ginevra's mother doubted her daughter's ability to conceive. After the incident with the stallion, Ginevra became even more of the statue, reserved, cold, a shimmering form of flawless beauty with no warmth beneath it. Signora di Cavalcanti was fond of the thought that the horse had kicked the last of the life from her daughter, that she was as the undead, an imitation of the living, feasting on that of others so she might feel a part of it all. That was why the lovers came one by one, that was why the knowledge was grasped, from book to book. She hungered for human vitality, sought human life and warmth, feasted on human learning and sensation, swallowing it whole as her own.

At least, that is what Ginevra's mother believed.

Ginevra herself had not minded so much. There was never the spiralling sensation of the mood swings, no putrid red stains ever spread themself across satin and velvet, no crippling pains across her belly. She did not care for children, and did not care for losing her figure. She could take lovers to her bed at any time of the month she pleased, and did not otherwise have to worry about preventing conception. In all, the situation suited her very well.

From time to time she would be aware, halfway through her dreams, of an emptying sensation in the pit of her stomach, as though her womb were disintegrating and falling to dust within her, but these sensations were rare. Ginevra relished the fact her life was not interrupted by the oily, metallic scent of blood, or the lusty, demanding cries of a screaming child. Such things would have stood between her and her pursuit of fulfilment.

Fulfilment. The cup of satisfaction, at least, hovered within inches of her lips. The gypsy man who she knew was most certainly not the jongleur - far too short and round - had met whatever devilish god he worshipped that morning. And in the slight scuffle than ensued, outrage at the hanging heating the tempers of those who were otherwise cautious, several other Romany had been arrested. Among them were the Vicomtesse's other three attackers.

A smile curved the Vicomtesse's lips, not quite reaching her eyes, breaking her from the reverie of her youth. Satisfaction, certainly.


	11. Chapter 11

"Why would Ginevra de Vincennes want to frame the Rom, Pierre?"

The poet, who'd celebrated newfound wealth through a commission from a besotted lad by getting quite literally blind drunk - the tables, burning stump of a candle, and several bottles of wine had all run together, their colours mixing and entwining as chalk in the rain, and for a moment, with a drooling lip, Pierre rued he was a poet and not an artist; he could begin quite a new style in this fashion - let out a loud and quite nervous groan that was intended to be inward, and used the newcomer as an excuse to let his scrappy dark head slump forward on the table, his forehead rebounding slightly with a thunk! on the wood. There was the violent scrape of a chair being pulled swiftly to his side, and the soft thump of a lean (and unfortunately strong) body seating itself, the throat of this body clearing itself pointedly, a pleasantly musky scent of spices and wood drifting by his nostrils. With another groan, Pierre, who was in no condition to do anything else, gently lifted his head and then repeatedly bumped it on the table top, the hand that yet clutched a bottle of wine clenching even tighter, his other contorted in a fist. His new companion said nothing more, but Pierre heard the strike of flint and a second later the pungent smell of tobacco joined that of the spices and wood. Pierre coughed miserably and tried to pull himself in an upright position, whilst his companion lifted his long, slim legs, crossing them over onto the table top.

"Well?" Clopin repeated pleasantly. "Have you any thoughts on the matter, my friend?"

Pierre had quite naturally been aware of the recent unfortunate hangings of the innocent romni, and from the rom population that frequented the Bells & Motley had observed the mounting tension and fear. Pierre found silent cold stares, turned heads and ominous mutterings his greetings now, in place of the jovial laughter, shameless encouragement and slaps on the back of days gone past. The rom were a suspicious lot, and all outside of their own were to be suspected in times such as these. Formerly the thickest clientele in the small tavern, all but a scant few had slunk away to whatever hiding place they had in the past few days, leaving the tavern mistress cursing the law for taking away her source of income. Pierre did not object; his part in the whole affair, though it was unknown, was sufficiently enough to make him exceedingly nervous - when passing both rom and guard alike. It was alright for Herlikin as far as the rom went - she was one of them and married to the king what's more, but Pierre - Pierre was an outsider. And Pierre was not altogether sure Herli would not abandon him, or claim he had manipulated her, if they were discovered. Clopin had gotten drunk with him innumerable times over the years and together they had light-heartedly abused and insulted the other - but he knew Clopin could be earnestly cruel when he wished to. Without Pierre, Herlikin's blackmail may not have been possible, an idle wish from an excitable woman - his literacy had cemented it. Or that would be how Clopin saw it. Without lifting his head from the table, Pierre announced into the wood –

"Clopin, I truly am sorry for your recent losses, but I'm afraid I do not know the answer to your query."

Next to him Clopin raised black brows and puffed on his pipe, leaning back a little further in his chair. Pierre was stone cold drunk, and Clopin did not think it would be difficult to persuade him that the route to self-preservation would be more easily pursued with the truth than with a lie. And he was quite sure Pierre was lying. His dear little wife had been spotted speaking urgently to the poet earlier that evening in the tavern, her slim little claw holding the already drunk man fast by the arm, her eyes flashing sparks. Milosh, who had brought the news back, had informed him without guile, a short laugh preceding his "looks like that Gringoire Fool has offended your wife again in a drunken stupor, Clopin!". Clopin himself had had his suspicions since the name "Ginevra de Vincennes" had been brought to his eager ears. But the clincher had come the day before, when Herlikin had broke down into tears upon news of Grofo's death. He'd comforted her without a word about what he suspected, but Clopin knew that when it came to those outside of blood, Herli Did Not Cry. She had a part in it, and that part was causing her guilt. There would be no way under Shaitan he could persuade her to tell him, although she probably knew he suspected. But Clopin must know for certain.

Narrowing his gaze on Gringoire, Clopin outstretched a lanky arm and wrested the poet's head up by the hair. "Come, come now, Pierre." he said chidingly. "Have I, or my fathers, survived this long by being fools? You will tell me what devious schemes my wife has been plotting behind my back."

Pierre groaned again and waved his hands about expressly, his bleary gaze fixed on the table top, avoiding Clopin's piercing black eyes. "There are no devious schemes, Clopin! I swear it to you!"

Clopin drummed his fingers impatiently on the table top. Pierre continued emphatically. "I swear it, on my poetic integrity, by the gems and jewels that flow through my fingertips, there are no devious schemes!"

Clopin stared at him silently for a moment. "Alright Pierre, you've established there are no devious schemes about, now perhaps you'd like to clarify what exactly is going on, in that case?"

Pierre threw his hands up dramatically to the Heavens and let his head fall down against the back of his chair, before his arms came crashing back down to his sides. Herlikin had cornered him earlier in the evening when he was sufficiently drunk enough to be defenceless.

"Now listen to me, Pierre, you're going to do exactly as I tell you before there is more bloodshed!"

"Herlikin - Madame Trouillefou - leave it alone - surrender the letter!" he'd slurred, covering his face with his hands to avoid her wrathful gaze. Clawing at those hands she'd tried to wrest them from his face.

"I will NOT surrender. I will never surrender to the likes of her!"

"Then tell Clopin about it! Tell somebody!" he'd tried to wrench free, but she succeeded finally in baring his face, gripping his wrists in her claws, glaring at him venomously, desperation in the depths of her eyes.

"I will not!! How can you suggest such a thing? They will despise me! HE might despise me - " she broke off suddenly and her lower lip trembled a little. "Pierre - " she shook his wrists urgently. "Help me!! Help!"

"It could be you and I on those gallows next!"

"No! No! If you do as I say this will all end - WE will be triumphant!"

"I can't, Herli! I haven't written my masterpiece yet! I don't want to die!"

"You pathetic worm, stop blubbering for the love of Kali! You're not going to die! No artist is appreciated until his death at any rate!"

"I have to give them something to appreciate first!" Pierre was desperately trying to avoid her eyes, squinting his shut.

"You'll have a chore of it!" she declared wryly and then leaned in close to his face so that her very breath danced over his eyelids. "Look at me, Pierre." she insisted, and hesitatingly he'd opened his bloodshot eyes to gaze into the odd coloured, unnaturally bright ones she wore in her head. The alcohol he'd consumed caused his vision to dance, it seemed as though her very eyes burned with fire. "You will help me, Pierre. You've heard what the gadje say about my eyes, haven't you? In your heart you believe it. Dammnit, you will help me, or by the gods I will curse you so that your inkpot is permanently dry and your quill is forever limp, if you understand my meaning!" she hissed.

Pierre's mouth had gone dry and he'd remained silent as she explained what she wanted done.

"PIERRE!" Clopin's fist slamming on the table brought him out of his memory and back to the present, uncomfortable situation. "Pierre, let me tell you a story. " Clopin's voice dipped down low, and his brow furrowed darkly, his tone curiously intriguing. Despite himself, Pierre leaned forward in to listen. "It was not so long ago that this took place. A matter of months perhaps. It was found out that a friend to the rom had been given cause for much worry by the gajo authorities. So much cause for worry in fact, that it had loosed our rom friend's tongue, and not in our favour. Now we all rom know what the gajo can do to us once they have us within their grip. Our young friend had not been hurtled into the black pits of the dungeons, nor forced to face judgement in the Courtrooms of the Palace of Justice. But they had found the means by which to persuade him in pieces of gold and silver. We understood it was not the poor fellow's fault. We understood they had tempted a poor underdog in a language he could not resist. And so, in order that he might not do any more harm to himself, or his fellows, we relieved him of his tongue."

Pierre gulped wiped the perspiration from his brow and took another swig of wine. Much more and he would be copiously sick, he knew. Gypsies here and there threatening to disable him in various ways. Why hadn't he gone to law school like his father had wanted? Why had he been born a sensitive poet, forever skirting the brinks of respectable society? Why had he been seduced by the romanticism of befriending an outcast race who were, for the most part, highly unstable and unpredictable? Clopin sat quietly back in his chair once more, raising his pipes to his mouth and fixing the young poet with still intensity, the flames from the fire to the side of them throwing pumpkin orange shadows over his thin, angled face. There was a steely look in his eyes Pierre had not seen before - and did not particularly like. He took a breath and prepared to give in.

"Here you are, Clopin!" both men jumped, startled as Herlikin appeared suddenly, descending upon them swiftly and reaching out a hand to stroke her husband's cheek.

"Ah, Herli!" Clopin quickly recovered his composure, smiling charmingly up at his wife who ignored Pierre pointedly and wrapped an arm about Clopin's shoulder. "Where were you, hiding under the table?"

"Hmm, don't you wish!" she said playfully, and running a finger down his long, pointed nose. Pierre paused, mouth open and cast a woozy look at Clopin, who glared at him urgently from the corners of his eye, and shook his head with barely perceptible movement. "It's late, my one and only. Are you coming?"

Clopin shrugged and pushed his hat up. "Certainly. Pierre and I have finished our little conversation, eh Pierre?" he shot Gringoire a meaningful look while he wrapped an arm about Herli's waist, tugging her close. 'Don't forget' that look said 'what I have told you'. Pierre lifted his arms dazedly, and nodded, eyes wide.

"I think there's nothing left to discuss!"

"Then." Clopin got gracefully to his feet. "I'll leave you to yourself in that case." he tipped the brim of his hat slightly, and then turned, hustling Herli away - but not before she shot the poet a meaningful, savage glance of her own. 'Don't forget' that look said 'what you must do for me.'

The two had barely left before Pierre was groaning and banging his head upon the table again.

-----

In the catacombs, the rom couple made their way to their home in silence. They walked with arms wrapped around each other, her head against his chest, not speaking and both very much wanting to speak. Clopin stared off to the side, forehead creased and chin out-ward jutting, lost in thought while Herlikin pouted and cast her eyes downward, squeezing her husband's waist hard in an effort to get closer to him. They were both glad when they reached the passageway that led down into the Court, countenances visibly lightening, smiling at each other once more. Clopin stepped back to allow his wife to go first, then suddenly darted an arm forward, arresting her by the elbow. She glanced back in surprise, alarm triggered in her eyes as he pulled her back to face him, taking her other arm in his grip.

"Herli - " he said gently, looking at her intensely. " - if there were something troubling you - you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

She hesitated only a moment before wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. "Of course, darling, of course, dearest." she whispered hoarsely, rubbing her face on his tunic. He was silent again above her, one hand idly working its way over her head, an ache thudding its way dully through his chest at what seemed to be a lie. "I will tell you, soon." She uttered the last words so softly it was pure accident he heard them at all. Releasing a sigh, and with a lighter heart, he turned her round again and together they walked into the Court.

The hanging was scheduled for the Wednesday, in three days time. It was only to be the accused three. The others were being held just until their savage heathen selves had calmed sufficiently enough so they would not be a danger to the Citizens of Paris. Of course, when Claude deigned that to be was anyone's guess.

Ginevra did not especially care. So long as the three whom she'd gestured to, each in their turn with one long, white, jaspar adorned finger, were led to the gallows and carried from them, she would insist upon nothing else. For now. After all, the Rom were constantly challenging the law, it would be only a matter of time before they once again gave cause to have themselves arrested.

Still. The Gypsy woman was being remarkably stubborn. Several of her fellows were dead, and she'd made not an effort to intervene at any point. A hardened witch, and what further proof did she need? Only one who partook in the black arts could be so heartless toward her own kith and kin. Nonetheless - it were not as though Claude would question any offences she brought to the Courts. She could keep this silly game up for as long as the wretched woman wanted to play.

Claude. She paced restlessly in her rooms, entrapped by walls hung with silks and velvet. They had kept their silence. Standing side by side in the Courts, a foot wide gap between them, speaking to the air before them and relying on it to catch hold of the words and carry them to each other. Her detestation of him grew like a cyst, lodging itself on her heart and devouring her, feeding itself so that it could finger its way through her body, spreading relentlessly until her every pore felt contaminated by it. She would not give in to him. No matter the costs, she would never be the one to relent. If he ever desired the company of her bed again - and she was sure he did - he would have to seek it out himself. He would have to be humbled.

She relished the thought.

The rain once again sleeted down in the courtyard beyond, pummelling to the stones and grasses in a relentless drove, making transport impossible. Trapping her inside. She stopped her pacing and whirled to the windows, gazing out at the impossible grey which stretched on endlessly it seemed, cloaking even the thick greens of the forest behind the chateau. Trapped, that's what she was. Her brow creased slightly, marring the smooth perfection of her face. That cursed weather! She spun around once more, her heel slipping a little on the soft plush of the carpet and she wobbled slightly before regaining her balance. The walls of the room did not stop moving, but continued to sway sickeningly, shrinking inwards as she gaped at them in disbelief. Nausea flooded her, constricting her throat, and she stumbled backwards, feeling behind her until she found the window seat and sunk down upon it. Shutting her eyes she forced herself to breathe deeply, fighting the choking sensation until it ceased and she could open her eyes once more.

The walls were still. Her rooms were large and spacious and still. Anger rushed through her to overwhelm the confusion, setting her blood tingling and flushing her from head to toe. She determined to have the fool cook replaced immediately.

The new maid - whose name she still did not know - knocked hesitantly at the open door then.

"What?!" Ginevra bit the word out, snapping her head savagely sideways. The maid leapt back a little nervously, then sidled forward, gazing at her curiously. The Vicomtesse's brow glistened with a fine sweat and her eyes were shadowed, looking almost sunken in her head. The girl realised for the first time her mistress was not so young a woman as she would seem. "Either give a reason for your presence here, or leave." The command was tinged in venom and the girl trembled slight as she held out a hand clasping a crude sheet of paper, folded twice.

"Please, Victomesse. This message was delivered for you."

Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, Ginevra snatched it to her and dismissed the maid who gratefully dropped a curtsy and darted out. She recognised the crude handwriting immediately.

_Belladonna,_

_I require another meeting with you. Meet me tomorrow at twelve midnight on the Pont des Pêcheurs. Come alone._

_Chaton._

With an incredulous sneer, Ginevra balled the paper up and strode over to toss it into the fireplace. It crumbled instantly within the flames, glowing a hellish yellow before flaking into ash and falling amongst the kindling. The witch had had her chance to bargain with the Vicomtesse and she would not get another. Ginevra would not be holding any appointments on the morrow.


	12. Chapter 12

The portly coachman Lasalle watched the back and forth stride of the small gypsy woman as she marched upon the Pont des Pêcheurs, growing impatient as first the quarter hour, then the half, drew round and passed on. The bridge, though small and of no import, marked an unstated boundary between the aristocrat and the commoner, dividing the two castes quite neatly and allowing themselves to break into smaller groups on their respective sides. Lasalle, his face red and sweating from the exertion of the walk to the bridge, watched from his side, cloaked dankly in the shadows between two graceful white houses.

'A horse would herald your approach.' The Vicomtesse had said 'You are to go on foot.' And so on foot he had gone, wincing and panting the whole way, his breeches sticking uncomfortably to his flabby thighs from the damp which had sprung up quickly. 'Make her wait.' His mistress had instructed him. 'But do not let her leave.' An icy smile had curved one corner of her mouth, and her eyes had hovered on an unseen point over his broad shoulders. "You're to teach her a lesson, Lasalle. See that you teach it well.'

Lasalle mopped his brow with a stained rag and squinted at the flame which leapt about on the bridge in irritation. The Vicomtesse's meaning had been clear, and free as the gypsy was from the grips of bestial fury she had possessed on their first meeting, he did not think such a lesson would be an unpleasant experience - on the whole, it would be rather the opposite. The gypsy paused in her stride, finally, and leant over the rail of the bridge, her small pointed face illumined by a round sliver of moonlight. She was not beautiful, like the Vicomtesse, but there was a vibrancy within her the Vicomtesse lacked. Ginevra de Vincennes had the perfect, still beauty of an icy lake, and was just as cold and frozen within, this frigidity extending upon those who would crack it. The little gypsy, on the other hand, fair crackled with a fiery energy that threatened to consume whatever was in her path. She was soft and - mouldable.

Lasalle grinned to himself, and lashed a hand over his sweaty upper lip, and continued to study Herlikin where she stood.

-----

On the other side of the bridge, from the shelter of an overhanging roof, Clopin watched his wife no less earnestly. Seeing from the slant of her eyes earlier that evening that she had something in the works, he'd dropped a kiss upon her lips and told her he was going to the Centre for the evening.

He had gone, as he said, and positioned himself in such a way that the tavern exit was clearly visible. Hours passed, he ate a lot, drank more, and began to feel he had perhaps been wrong in his judgement. But no - at about half past the eleventh hour, a small figure made her way hurriedly toward the exit. He would recognise his wife in any garb, even a long, thick black cloak. Well - the fact it was his cloak undoubtedly helped. She'd slipped quickly out, but not so quickly he hadn't caught her up just outside the Bells & Motley and stayed steadily on her heel as she'd darted quickly through the streets to the Pont des Pêcheurs.

He watched her determined, pointed little face pucker into a frown of irritation as the minutes ticked past, marching up and down across the cobblestones impatiently. Waiting for someone, of course. As Herlikin stopped her agitated pacing to lean over the bridge, gazing into the river below with the intense look that always indicated deep thought, hair whisking about her face in the breeze, Clopin sighed quietly and slumped against the rough bricks of the house at his back. He feared to see who she would meet.

A second later he started forward as a stocky figure came emerged into view, slowly but with no particular stealth. Still - he did not like seeing his wife approached from behind. Risking being seen, Clopin slipped out from the shadows and with very particular stealth, stole forward until he was at the steps leading up to the bridge, ducking behind the stone pillars which supported the rail. Peering upwards as the moonlight hit the newcomer, and Herlikin whirled around to face him, Clopin could not resist the dropping of his jaw as the red, rough features of de Vincennes' coachman came into view.

-----

"You. Are not. Belladonna." Herlikin was too enraged to be frightened, the words slipping from her tongue in a hiss. Levelling her gaze at the coachman she recognised only too well, her body tensed tighter than a lute string, Herlikin sneered viciously. Lasalle eyed her warily, drawing to a stop a good few feet from the woman who balled her fists by her sides and watched him with the intensity of a hunting cat.

"My mistress instructed me to come in her stead and inform you she will no longer be doing business with you." His voice still husky from the long walk, Lasalle drew in a great breath and rose to his full height, towering above the angry gypsy woman whose very ferocity made him falter a little.

"Oooh, really?" Herlikin crossed her arms slowly over her breast, her voice heavy and hard. "Has your mistress forgotten the stakes at hand? Does she think a lifetime lived in shame more bearable than a single, brief apology? Does she think my threats idle?"

Lasalle, who did not know the details of the Vicomtesse's dealings with this peculiar woman, straightened his shoulders and blustered emphatically. "Considering we are two people alone on a bridge in the dead of night, one must wonder where the real threat lies."

Herlikin suddenly became aware of the situation she was in.

It flickered across her face for an instant only before being masked again. Fear, stark and illuminated by the Moon's light for an instant that was long enough for Lasalle to see. And when he saw it, it struck him that the little woman could stamp her feet and gnash her teeth as much as she liked - she was a small, defenceless gypsy woman alone in the middle of Paris.

She anticipated the action before he made it, nonetheless he managed to grasp hold of her streaming hair as she darted away at his advance, hauling her back to be met by scrabbling nails and shabbily sandalled feet kicking and scratching for all they were worth.

The screams dried in Herli's throat as terror convulsed her and she could only react in the basest of ways, her arms wobbling uselessly, then finally caving beneath the force of his, gripping her tightly by the wrists and throwing her back against the railing of the bridge. Now he was so close the fat of his gut pressed against her, and she could smell his putrid breath. Just as Herli found her voice, Lasalle was gripped from behind and thrown from her roughly, groaning as he hit the pavements.

Her senses told her that her saviour was Clopin, her instincts commanded her to run. Gasping as one who is drowning, Herlikin stumbled off the bridge, then ran as though the devil were at her heels, sheer panic propelling her onwards.

-----

Back at the Pont des Pêcheurs Clopin glowered over the prostate Lasalle. The attack on his wife, though perhaps of her own making, had angered him to the point where his limbs stiffened and his vision skewered. He'd strode forward to grasp hold of the bastardly pig, wrenching his filthy form from Herlikin, who had reeled as though about to faint, then darted off to the streets beyond. His first impulse was to follow her, but the bloodlust he felt for the puffy, red man who struggled to his feet, who'd meant his wife harm of the worst nature, and the realisation such an opportunity would probably not present itself again, Clopin grasped Lasalle by the collar, glaring into his shiny face.

"I believe this is what the Jews refer to as 'an eye for an eye.'" he declared mirthlessly before bringing his fist down with a satisfying crunch on Lasalle's nose.

-----

Herlikin paused to catch her breath as the Bells & Motley came into view. Crouching into a darkened doorframe, she pressed both hands down on her sternum and forced herself to breathe deeply, the sweat which clung to her flesh chilling as the wind blew past, and slowly, slowly her heart rate decreased and ceased to feel as though it would explode.

Clopin. He'd been there. He'd followed her. She could not go home to the Court. She could not. She panted a little and shook her head vigorously, clearing her thoughts. Pierre. She would go to Pierre and see if he had finished what she'd set for him.

It took a great summoning of courage to step out from the doorframe, and when she did she felt as naked as the day she was born. The night sky was clear, but the wind was spooked and the scent of rain was in the air. Herlikin drew her cloak tightly around her, and, staying as close to the shadows as she could, once again sprinted down the streets.

-----

After depositing Lasalle in the icy river which brought the near senseless man to his senses once more, Clopin had returned to the Court nursing split knuckles and an ominous frown. All the same, he'd not been terribly surprised to find their tent empty, and with a resigned sigh he'd fallen on the bed, hoping Herlikin had not met with more trouble. Running a weary hand over his face he tasted blood and groaned as he beheld the torn skin on his fists. Damn Herli. Why the hell did she do these things anyway? His temper rose as he thrust his hands into a bucket of water, sending a thousand raw nerves screaming in protest. Damn her.

-----

Herlikin arrived at the rooms Pierre rented at a boarding house near the Red Bull out of breath once more, but rapidly returning to her usual humour. A peek in the door assured her of what she had feared: that this was a loose establishment, choked to the brim with hedonistic students determined to waste their incomes on whores and wine. Whores. She sidled down the entrance hall with a suspicious sidewards slant, the shabbily furnished parlour to her right revealing two such ladies behaving familiarly with a couple of youths. The shabby yellow light spilling from the lamps illuminated their exaggerated features, the painted faces and breasts bursting from too-tight bodices, giving them the appearance of ragged dolls - or ornamented corpses. Slipping her feet from her sandals, Herlikin darted past the open room and down the hall silently, not wanting to be seen and mistaken for one. Pierre had told her his room was the last on the second floor, and cursing every creak which emitted from old hollow steps, Herlikin darted upstairs.

A gentle rap at the last door elicited no response, and Herlikin lifted the latch and slid the door back silently, glancing cautiously into the tiny room with its sharply slanted ceiling, filthy floors and murky window.

Wrinkling her nose at the stale odour and glaring with distaste at the sorry state of affairs young men are wont to let surround them, Herlikin dared to push the door back further, revealing Pierre huddled at a desk in the far corner, scratching frenetically at paper with an old quill pen, lost in his work, fingers stained black with ink.

"A-hem." The demand for attention was neither soft nor gentle, and Pierre leapt from his seat with a yell, thumping his head hard on the low roof above him. Herlikin snorted and did not bother to hide her smile as he declared an oath and clutched his cranium in both hands, hopping about in agitation and pain. "Working late, Pierre?"

"Herlikin!" Pierre ejaculated when he'd finished hopping. "Good God, you startled the very life from me. If you've taken ten years from my life and I never complete my masterpiece, I'll haunt you after my death, I swear it."

"Pish posh, Pierre, I knocked quite loudly."

"Do you expect an artist in the throes of creation to pay attention to the mundane goings-on of the surrounding world? Especially in the middle of the night when it's dangerous for solitary women to be out and about?"

Herlikin blanched a little, but only a little. "Speak not of such things now. The bitch is going to ignore us, as I thought. Have you completed what I set for you?"

Pierre threw up his arms in defeat. "It is only what I have been at work at all this evening. 'Hurry' you said 'do it quickly' you demanded 'I want it by tomorrow!' you insisted. Nevermind I have a thousand other works to concentrate on, nevermind these things take time and craftsmanship, never mind one cannot churn these things out like sausages!"

Throughout this tirade Herlikin had folded her arms tightly and rolled her eyes in disbelief. When Pierre drew finally to a close she leapt back with "Well, you're an artist and this is your craft - you should find it effortless!"

Pierre groaned and threw himself back into his chair, dropping his face into his hands. "Madame, you made specific requirements for this work, you forget the distress I have felt throughout this whole sordid affair, you forget it is late and I am tired."

Herlikin ignored him. "Well - is it done?"

Snatching up a piece of payment from the many which littered his desk, he tossed it in her general direction. She caught it and peered at the scrawling words. "There it is. It is a hasty, clumsy job, but it is done."

She thrust the paper back at him. "Read it to me."

He glanced sidewards at her, his eyes rimmed in red and hollowed, his chin and jaw speckled and unshaved. He was tired, she realised, wearing only a dirty white shirt and breeches, his face drawn and his hair tousled. Good. That meant he had been working.

"Herli - Madame Trouillefou - " he amended at her glare. "Let me attempt again when I am recovered. It is a poor work, rushed, badly structured, not terribly witty, and devoid of any subtlety."

"I did not ask for subtlety. Lack of subtlety is desired."

"Still, some might've been nice." he muttered petulantly.

"Does it get the point across?"

He sulked. "Yes."

"Then shut up and read it to me."

With a groan he did so, and Herlikin's smile grew wider than the cat whose whiskers are soaked in cream. As he drew to a close, Pierre chanced a glance at her and was suitably impressed: Not even Herli had borne such an expression of malevolent delight before to equal the one she wore now.

"Pierre," she purred with a gleam of wicked satisfaction "truly, your masterpiece."


	13. Chapter 13

Ginevra de Vincennes sent her handmaids scampering from the room in fright the next morning by emerging from her bedchambers with something unsettlingly akin to a pleasant smile on her face. She did not snap, scowl, mutter or curse as they washed, dressed and perfumed her - and although she was no more charming toward them than usual, her apparent good humour was so very unusual it positively unnerved them. The servant who brought her breakfast was similarly baffled as the Vicomtesse hummed almost happily under her breath, and rattled the china in a manner which would have earned him an immobilising glare on any other day. They were all at a loss to offer any explanation, and exchanged frantic whispers in the kitchen and servants quarters below, certain she must have some nastiness in play to be so uncharacteristically cheerful.

The morning letters were delivered on a silver tray as Rossignol picked up his lute to sing and play for his Mistress. Ginevra carefully leaned her head back against her settee in a manner which would not disarray her elaborate hairstyle and shut her dark eyes. She allowed the golden timbre of Rossignol's prepubescent voice to lead her into a world of bubbling golden fountains and gently nodding sunflowers, everything gilded and lavishly tooled in undying perfection. Opening her eyes a slit she admired Rossignol's pearly, curved cheek and blonde curls, layering over each other like gold shavings. The blue of his eyes winked with the same purity as the hot blue of the sky in her imaginings. No wrinkle creased his brow, no blemishes marred his face. His hair was as soft as a cub's fur and his voice was as clear and clean as a diamond. Such perfection could not be marred by the passages of time, and Ginevra smiled indulgingly at the youthful gem, where he sat amongst brocade and lace, gold and carved oak; all as ceaselessly perfect as himself. Rossignol's voice swelled under her glance into full bloom, encouraging a flock of little birds to gather at the window and add their voices to his. As the song came to a close, the final notes dying quietly on the breeze, the Vicomtesse sat up and gestured to the tray. "Bring me the post, Rossignol." She commanded quietly.

Lasalle's entrance cut silence through the kitchen conversation like a knife. The maids' eyes bulged, and the footmens' mouths gaped, each one hastily stepping aside to make way for the coachman who resigned himself to the loss of his pride and was too sore to attempt a salvaging. The scullery maid sat up on her heels, rubbed sooty hands over her eyes and then began to giggle, earning herself a sharp elbow in the ribs from the cook who watched in silence with the rest of them. Still slightly soggy, clothes hanging in thick wrinkles over his pudgy form, Lasalle sported a black eye, a broken nose and a lip split in more than one place. From his laboured breathing and stiff limbs, it was a fair guess to assume those visible were not the only injuries he'd acquired during the night. The servants watched in silence as he limped gingerly to one of the large tables in the centre of the paved room, clutching one arm as though it would dislocate itself if he let it go, and downed a jug of water with greedy desperation, rivulets of the mother's blood coursing down his stubbled, bloody chin and pooling at the filthy grey of his undershirt's collar.

"Lord, Lasalle, what in blazes happened to you?!" the cheeky scullery maid declared, breaking the uncomfortable silence finally. Her eyes were round as saucers and as eager as a cat's beholding the same filled with milk.

As Lasalle lowered his head to pull the water jug away from his beefy lips, a tooth separated itself from his gums, plummeting down to splash into the jug with a tinkle. Blearily he blinked at the little mess of red and white foam left by the tooth in its sinking course to the bottom of the jug, and his jowls quivered.

The servants were startled into action by the demanding jangling of the bell from the Vicomte's quarters. Darting off about their various neglected duties, they left Lasalle in relief his humiliation would not be added to, to dash the jug against the wall, spilling water, spit and tooth into the crevices between the flagstones.

-----

Ginevra flipped through her morning letters impatiently, tossing aside invitations from Lady This and salutations from Duchess That while Rossignol sat on his footstool at her knee, watching her with slavish devotion, his rich blue and gold embroidered tunic appearing as an extension of her own gown. Her darting fingers came to a halt when she reached an envelope addressed in familiar, spindly writing.

"Oh for the love of - " she proclaimed in disgust, and contemplated tossing it directly aside. Indeed, the envelope had almost left her fingers when she checked herself and drew it back: Lasalle had not yet reported to her, and she had emphasised that was to be an immediate occurrence with the morning. Her lips twisted now more in a dark frown than a pale smile, and she wrenched the thin paper open, unfolding the sheet of parchment within to glare at it challengingly.

_Belladonna,_

_You have chosen to put your reputation and status at risk by ignoring me, and for this you will be punished unless you agree to have released the three innocents you have put up to the gallows. If they are not released, unharmed and unpursued, a certain literary delight shall be released, performed, recited, published, exchanged, whispered about, gossiped over, handed down and associated forever more - though perhaps not in the most direct of terms - with your own, esteemed name._

_You may wish to enquire after the letters your husband received this morning._

_I will not be ignored._

_I will be on the bridge the midnight of the day the innocents are released._

_As ever yours,_

_Chaton._

Ginevra's eyes were wild and terrible as she mashed the paper between her fingers and tore her gaze furiously about the room, its layered textures and rich colours blurring crazily in the corner of her vision. The letter, now screwed into an impossibly small ball, slipped from her finger to thud against the carpet and roll against Rossignol's silk slipper. He glanced down at the scrap nervously, then turned his baby blue eyes fearfully toward his mistress as she stormed out of her rooms in a swirl of rustling silks.

-----

Moments later she was hastily announced into her husband's chambers, where he sat at the desk in his sitting room, sipping coffee much sweetened with milk, and chuckling over his letters. As Ginevra strode in, her eyes once more hard, impassive stones, he stifled his laughter and rose to greet her, his watery eyes and perspiring brow indicating he had been well amused indeed. As he lay the sheet down upon the table, her glance flickered across it, and its recognisable script confirmed the worst of her suspicions.

"erh-hmmm, my dear," The Vicomte said, a rather effeminate titter poorly masked with one hand. "It is unusual to see you so early in the day." It was unusual to see her at all, but he left that point out.

She swept over the pleasantries. "Something has amused you, Henri?"

"Ah - yes. Yes, indeed my dear. There appears to be some new talent, rough and humble though he be, amongst the literati of Paris, and someone has seen fit to send me a rather humorous work by him. Hmm. You might be amused by it yourself, my dear."

No guile was betrayed by his affable smile, yet Ginevra eyed him suspiciously as he fished the the fragile sheet from the many strewn on his desk to hold out to her. He was altogether too pleased to see her. Her polished fingertips trembled as though in hesitation, and then she snatched the paper from him and held it up to scrutinise.

The blood drained from her face as though by a pump, then whooshed back in a flood, lighting her pale skin with a crimson tinge as she read, the roaring in her ears dimming the sound of Henri pondering "I wonder who else has received an early copy..."

_Etched in marble, pale and shimmering_

_Her beauty to none compares_

_A sculpted blossom, never withering_

_The ravages of time she bears_

_Unchanging as the immortal stone_

_From which blooms the graceful Madonna_

_This frozen beauty will never roam_

_From the face of La Belladonna_

_A blessing from the Heavens, surely_

_This undying, constant grace_

_The gift bestowed for virtue truly_

_Never yet stained by disgrace_

_That curled hair, matched by lip_

_Those eyes so wide and glittering_

_That invite all noble to sit and sip_

_To indulge in passions flittering_

_No miracle be it, this frozen rose_

_Which withers nor blossoms more_

_It is kept captured still by those_

_Who plunge welcomed through her door_

_Who stoke their vigour that she be_

_A study in eternal perfection_

_Their sweat the feast of energy_

_She repays with her affection_

_A blessing for virtue? Sadly, no_

_This beauty is merely a mask_

_Kept supple by the ebb and flow_

_Of young lovers in their task_

_The passing years cannot afford_

_For her to know a stranger_

_So Duke, Marquis, Knight and Lord_

_Are ushered within her chamber_

_Her realms entered by more good men_

_Then those through Heaven's Gates_

_Though the exclamation of 'Amen'_

_Has been heard as lust abates_

_Through frenzy of passion inflamed_

_Satan has not such a number_

_More hearts blood she has claimed_

_To keep her still La Belladonna_

She couldn't breathe. The boiled knot of anger had risen to her throat and was choking her senseless. Through reddened vision she was aware of the sheet of paper tearing to pieces in her hands and that Henri was no longer smirking, but coughing nervously as he always did when her wrath was raised.

'Impossible….the little…slut…she couldn't…she wouldn't dare….how dare she…she…..that witch…that little BITCH!' The thoughts tumbled angrily on top of one another, hastily followed by another, warning her to regain control. 'Henri... he'd wanted to see her angry…he'd known, of course he'd known. Be calm. Sneer at him. Leave. He'd known. They'd all know.'

By the time the duelling thoughts had been slain to leave all but this one, she found herself at her own window seat, clinging to the velvet curtains as though she meant to tear them down, having apparently stormed out of her husband's chambers in fury.

-----

Herlikin Trouillefou awoke with a groan and a start and rolled over to bury herself in her husband's chest. To her dismay, she found herself immersed only in a filthy, ragged sheet, and with a revolted cry she leapt from the rickety cot in Pierre's room.

"Ugh..." Was the only reaction she could muster upon beholding the squalid room in the keen light of day. Her people were not any richer, but they, at least, were clean.

Wrinkling her flat nose she strode to the other corner and kicked at the bundle of shirt, stockinged feet and hair.

"Wake up, Pierre!" she hissed. "It's morning. I have been in your room, with you, alone, all night!!" Her tone was scandalised, despite the fact it was she who had stubbornly refused to return to the Court and face Clopin's anger. "Wake up!" She kicked again.

"umfup umfup..." Pierre managed to say, if not articulate, before unfolding, with many a creak and a groan, his limbs to stand.

Herlikin vigorously brushed herself down in an effort to get the grimy feel of the place from her clothes and skin, ignoring Pierre's dirty look, before declaring;

"Breakfast."

Pierre pouted and placed his hands on his hips. "Oh, really, Madame? And what would you like? Fresh bagels and goat's cheese? Ripe strawberries? Raspberry pie?"

"Do you have them?" Herli asked annoyingly, and he sighed, throwing his hands dramatically to the ceiling, scraping his knuckles.

"Oh, do calm down. You've all the temperament of an actress, or an aristocrat. A rose or two will be fine by me. Then we wait."

"You'd probably get better in your own home." Pierre muttered, scratching his dark mop fiercely. Herli flushed and narrowed her eyes on him.

"I can't go home yet. Not until this is over. Clopin is liable to tie me to the bed." Pierre cocked an eyebrow and his mouth slid open in a grin as he prepared to make a remark. "Swallow it, fool. We meet the bitch on the bridge tonight. And this time she had better done as we have asked."


	14. Chapter 14

"A mistake?" Claude Frollo repeated in disbelief, lines of suspicion sharply creasing the folds beneath his eyes.

Ginevra almost flinched under his searching look. Almost.

"A mistake." She repeated firmly. "I have erroneously identified the three gypsy innocents you have currently awaiting their sentence, as three who attacked and robbed me some weeks back."

A curious murmur ran through the rows of officials, law upholders and observers. There was no private meeting on this day; the Vicomtesse had ridden into Paris at a time she knew Frollo would be sitting in the Courts. She had waited - patiently, even - as cases were heard and judgements passed, until her own was called up. In front of so many - not merely the aristocrat but the commoner as well - refusing to release men declared innocent by the only "witness" to their supposed crime would seem odd.

Frollo's familiars were not without their own hypocrisies and prejudices, but none shared the Minister's obsessive passion to exterminate the Gypsies from the landscape of Paris. Like most hypocrites, Frollo truly believed in his demeanour of virtue and piety. To him, Gypsies hung, whether guilty or not, was a favour done to the country. Yet he had enough awareness of his assumed image to not let it slip. Unless another came up to accuse the Gypsies of a different crime, they would have to be set free.

Ginevra stood impassively on the stand as Claude steepled his hands and glowered. The quiet of the courtroom was steadily overcome by curious whispers, the scuffing of impatient shoes against the floor and the rustling of papers. Frollo's hesitation was uncomfortably conspicuous, but he held his gaze with the Vicomtesse. She returned it in kind. For several long moments, he searched her face, creases furrowing his brow. Finally, the smoothness of her complexion was broken. She raised one eyebrow in a question

Claude clapped his hands down on the bench abruptly.

"Well, then. Far be it from I to doubt the word of so honourable a woman as yourself. Permit me, however, to parade the men before you one final time so that you may be sure of your testimony in this instance."

Ginevra's mouth curved upwards on one side. "Of course."

Orders were given, guards marched out. The minutes stretched on while the onlookers murmured excitedly amongst themselves. Ginevra sat down, deliberately looking beyond Frollo to an elaborately tapestry depicting the Fall of Troy, the men spewing from the wooden belly of the horse, it's carved legs already stained in red, to overcome their enemies. She could see from his jaw, as her eyes rushed over him and to the wall that he was gritting his teeth beneath his translucent flesh, and she revelled in the thought.

The doors were pulled back, and the guards re-entered, three scruffy, dirty Gypsies amongst them.

"Line them up." His words were clipped. The men, their blood rimmed eyes and bruised necks livid splotches of colour against their blackened flesh, were arranged before the Judges' desk. Ginevra assembled her features to an expression of concentration, and glided smoothly from her chair. She strolled before the men who stood in despairing complacence, pausing before each one to eye him carefully. The courtroom was silent once more as she made her inspection, a silk kerchief held delicately at her nose and Frollo grasped the arms of his great chair so hard the wood creaked. He knew her well enough to know when she was putting on a show. He had seldom seen her perform so well.

Finally, she whirled on her heel and settled herself down calmly once more, an expression of ingenuousness meeting Claude who spoke from between his teeth.

"Well?"

The brusque inquiry earned him more than one raised eyebrow.

Ginevra shrugged gracefully.

"These are not the men. My conscience cannot rest easy until they are freed."

Not ten minutes later she was handed back into her coach while the three Romany, blinking their eyes at the harsh light of day they had not seen in over a week, stumbled out onto the pavement. She watched them from the window as her coach rattled down the street, her lip curling slightly in disgust. Such a shame they'd had to be set free. Still - the look on Claude's face had made up for it. She chuckled a little and arranged her white hands on her skirts. She supposed she'd have to make it up to him. They turned onto the road which would lead them beyond Paris and back to her Chateau, and her smile fell as she observed the sinking sun and reflected on the rendezvous that awaited her.

-----

Herlikin leaned against Pierre's grimy window sill and watched the Sun set. A blazing orange-red, he crept below the line of houses which lurched into the street directly opposite her. Once it disappeared behind them, the Sun was set for all she knew. She could not watch him sink down into the earth to exchange a kiss with the Moon as she rose. One hand crept up to fiddle with the pendant around her neck. The Gypsy men had been released. Pierre had huddled in the back of the Court all that day until the Vicomtesse had arrived, then scurried out to bring the good news back to his cohort. For Pierre, the worst was over. He'd agreed to accompany her to the bridge that even to ensure no harm came to her, but his mood was exceedingly cheerful, and the worried frown which had been etched on his forehead the last couple of weeks had lifted. He was jovial - at least until he learned Herlikin had removed all alcohol on the place.

"She could have someone waiting to kill me!" Herlikin had barred the door when he attempted to leave. "I'll need you at your most able!"

For Herlikin, on the other hand, the worst was beginning. The men had been freed unharmed, and trusting all went well tonight, her acknowledgement of the Vicomtesse's existence could all but cease.

And then it would be home to the Court of Miracles, and Clopin.

Herlikin hunched over a little further and stared gloomily at the stained sky, its mixture of dyes all running into each other and spreading over the horizon. Clopin. She wasn't sure how much he knew, but she was certain it was enough to cause trouble between them. In trouble - that she could handle. She spent her life in and out of trouble. But for something to come between her husband and herself...it was a thought that frightened her.

And if anything could come between them, partial responsibility for the death of innocents was surely such a thing?

Her eyes grew hot, and she discreetly lifted her hand from her pendant to wipe the tears away. She didn't want Pierre, sprawled out in the room behind her, to know she was on the verge of crying.

She raised her eyes to the sun once more for a last glimpse before it slipped behind the houses. The last golden glimmer as He vanished seemed like a wink.

Her motives had seemed justified at the beginning. Surely as justified as the Vicomtesse's had been - and yet her penalties seemed far more harsh. Her people had been hanged, to release the poem or letter now would surely result in yet more death, and her relationship with her husband could suffer a blow - a mortal blow - from this whole affair. Behind her Pierre shifted from his chair with a groan and went to cut himself some bread from a dry, stale loaf amongst the ink and papers on his table. Why hadn't she confided in Clopin from the beginning? It was the old story - she'd wanted to prove something. She wasn't even sure anymore what that something was.

And what would the Vicomtesse's suffering be? Apart from the snickers of a husband she despised anyway, she would have no punishment. She had sent innocents - knowing they were innocent - to the gallows instead of apologising for unjustified brutality carried out at her orders. A simple apology had been too much for her to muster. And what price had she paid? One or two weeks discomfort over the possibility of public humiliation?

It didn't seem much.

Vincennes would never be held accountable for the deaths she had caused, not ever in this world. Her word would never be doubted, or her motivations questioned. Even the gadje god preferred those who did evil to innocents in his name above all others.

And Herlikin would go home to an angry husband.

Herlikin sighed and gave her head a brisk shake, clearing it of the other mess in readiness for the confrontation that night.

-----

The Moon was full and white, illuminating the streets. There'd be fewer cutpurses and cutthroats out this night, due simply to the silvery light which washed over the roads and houses, slipping into the crevices between the flagstoned paths.

Clopin stared at it steadily, probing the tip of his dagger with one, long finger. So. Herlikin was up to some sort of trickery involving de Vincennes. Had Herlikin's involvement been the motivation for the Vicomtesse to start a private war against the Gypsies? Or had Herlikin got involved afterward, trying to be a hero of some sort?

Hmmm. That last possibility didn't fit Herli very well. Not that she wouldn't help if she could and was asked, but to adopt the guise of Avenging Angel by herself - no. It was more likely Herlikin had tried some clumsy attack in revenge for himself, and found the massacre to be the Vicomtesse's counter-attack.

Clopin puffed out a fog of breath and drew his cloak tighter around him, letting the hand with the dagger enclosed in it drift to the stones to trace lazy patterns in the dust. Either way, the damnable woman was in trouble - and a great deal of it as well. She should know better than to single headedly go up against a woman with more power, more influence and less heart.

Much of his temper had cooled now - after his encounter with the noblewoman's coachman, Clopin had not trusted himself to seek his wife out. Hurt, anger, fear, all had congealed inside him until he was sick to the stomach and pounding his fists against the walls of the Court to release the frustration he didn't want to turn on her.

And now, here he was. He'd gone through the motions of the day, still hurt, still angry and still worried, to find himself sitting outside on the streets in the dust, gazing balefully at the moon which eyed him back in an unperturbed way.

He gritted his teeth and slapped a hand against the cobblestones, every angle of his body taut and quivering with the need to release its pent up energy. Damn her, the silly bitch. Rarely did Clopin think of his wife in such coarse terms. Why couldn't she of said something to me? How could she let this happen to us? No wonder she had been so jittery this last week. Why does she put me through this?

He knew it wasn't deliberate. Brusque though Herli could be, she was not inclined to the suffering of innocents. And whatever she had tried to accomplish, she could not have anticipated the Vicomtesse would take the course she had. Stubbornness, pride and fear had probably silenced her when the situation got beyond her control. Clopin frowned in thought and absentmindedly touched a finger to each broken knuckle on his left hand, wincing a little with each poke.

So, now what to do? Drag Herli home by the hair and beat her soundly? That's what half the men in the Court would suggest. Even his father would approve of that. But it was out of the question. Clopin could handle ribbing about his leniency toward his wife, but he wasn't about to start treating her in a way that felt unnatural. He certainly could not tell the others about her part in all of this. Oh, she was damnably stupid, and she deserved punishment, but the others would not see it in the light he did. He did not want to lose his wife. He ground his teeth together and hoisted himself to his feet. So he would end up covering for her. Dammnit. He tipped the brim of his hat down lower over his forehead and began the walk home, scuffing his shoes against the pavement.

The glimmer of the Moon turned his head in her direction once more; she'd risen high now, the hour was very late. Herlikin had been gone almost an entire day, afraid to return home no doubt. She was probably hiding out with Pierre until she'd completed whatever fool crusade she'd set out upon. At least, he hoped she was.

A grim smile passed over his lips and he gripped the folds of his cloak tightly. Should he kiss her when she returned, or strangle her? Hell, why shouldn't he do both at the same time?

-----

When the hour of twelve struck, heavy blue clouds had rolled across the sky, shutting the Moon's light out like a snuffed candle. The streets were pitch black and silent - a hoarse cough of a beggar or the hiss of a cat breaking the darkness at infrequent intervals. The entire city seemed tense and poised, awaiting the arrival of some fearfully anticipated stranger. The air was static and humid - the dark clouds heralded a storm.

Herlikin huddled on the Pont des Pêcheurs close to the railing, listening to the water burble below her. The cowl of her cape was pulled down close around her face, and she crouched down a little way, trying to blend in with the balustrade. The small dark lantern she carried was hidden beneath her cloak; she did not like the idea of the Vicomtesse approaching her in the dark, being able to see her and Herli not knowing she was there. She shivered at the mere thought.

Behind her in the streets, on the nearest doorstep, Pierre squatted like a beggar, worn old cloak pulled tight around him, watching the bridge intently, hoping he was invisible in the gloom.

Herlikin had been waiting on the bridge for close to a half hour. Her eyes had since become accustomed to the dark, and she could make out the large hulking figures of houses cut out against the sky. The bridge around her. A faint glimmer on the water whenever a cloud pulled momentarily back. On the other side of the bridge a dull golden light, so dull Herlikin wasn't sure if she was imagining it, drew steadily closer. She stayed where she was.

The city seemed to draw in its breath. Then let it out slowly in a rumble of thunder.

A heel struck the stones of the bridge and Herlikin stood up with a jerk. The Vicomtesse drew up, the dark light from her lantern hitting the lower half of her face and bronzing it, her black eyes glittering at Herlikin in the silence.

Herlikin squared her shoulders in response, meeting the glare though she doubted the Vicomtesse could see her clearly in the midnight. There was no other sound for a few heavy moments except the faint tinkling of water beneath them and their own breathing, quiet and concentrated.

"Well?" Ginevra spoke first, snapping the air with the tersity of her question.

Herlikin, secure in the cloak of night, merely raised an eyebrow in response. "What?"

The Vicomtesse lowered her head. "Your men are free." She hissed quietly. "What of my letter?"

For a moment as reckless as a wild horse, Herlikin considered turning on her heel and disappearing off into the storm, leaving the Vicomtesse under her control still.

The moment passed. The Vicomtesse had never been in her control.

The sky undulated with a rumble of thunder once more as Herlikin undid the laces of her cloak and reached into her bodice, withdrawing the letter, still pristine in its envelope, its corners sharply creased. The thunder receded and silence lifted Herlikin's hand over the railing of the bridge. The heavens were torn open just then as lightning thrashed across them, and Ginevra's eyes widened with a gasp she could not contain as the letter tumbled from Herlikin's fingertips, plummeting into the water below.

They stood in the darkness staring at each other for several long moments, the tension in the air infecting their bodies as though it had no room elsewhere to move, poising them as taut and tight gallow ropes. The silence grew deafening.

Then, just as both women took a slow step backwards, the skies opened and the rain hammered down, drowning out the quiet, stabbing the pressured air and soaking them both to the bone in seconds. They did not turn, or take their eyes off the other as they backed off the bridge and it was several seconds more before they both hurried off down the streets in their separate directions.

Beneath the rushing waters of the Pont des Pêcheurs, Vicomte Henri de Vincennes' letter snagged on a stone, and was torn in two.

-----

Clopin had been drinking in the Bells & Motley instead of going back to the Court, and stepped outside when the crowded tavern became too humid to bear with the liquor swirling around inside his head. The rain was continuous and heavy; he ducked his long form beneath the small overhang of the roof, leaning against the glass panes of the window, and squinted out into the darkness, broken occasionally by a flash of lightning, the thunder deafening when the rain wasn't.

Clopin sighed and tipped his tankard to his lips, ale washing down his throat to pool in his gut uneasily. He lifted a hand in front of his face and waggled his fingers about. Ah, well. He wasn't too drunk yet. He could sit out here for a while and let the wet air revive him, then go inside to notch up the intake. He shot a glance over his shoulder into the tavern. The glass of the window was warped with age, and the frolicking figures inside seemed preternatural and fae, distorted as they were, the orange lights hallowing them. He turned back to the night. It was far more real.

But no - ! In the distance, a quivering dull light floated in midair. A will o'the wisp! A fairy sprite, dancing about in the rain! It was coming closer, too! Clopin stood up straight and narrowed his eyes, trying to sharpen his vision. The light flickered and went out, and Clopin's brow creased in puzzlement. But a moment later it flared into life again, closer still, and his jaw sagged in amazement.

A dripping wet Herlikin emerged from the storm, looking fearfully at the husband she'd spotted in the glow from the tavern.

Clopin tipped his hat up on his head and pinched his nose. For a moment he was confused - had the sprite turned into Herlikin? He shook his head briskly, clearing it, and realised the "sprite" had in fact been the lantern she held clutched in both hands. The black cloak she wore had effortlessly melted into the dark night, making her all but invisible out on the streets. He stepped out to greet her, folding his arms over his chest.

He glowered, and she trembled, not quite daring to meet his eyes while his glare challenged her to do so. The rain pooled about their feet, coursing in rivulets over their cheeks and shoulders, and into Herli's eyes as she lifted her head, soothing the sting behind them.

"It's over." she said softly.

"Is it now?" His voice was cold.

She nodded and let her gaze drop to the cobblestones once more.

"Does this mean you're coming home now?" He continued in the quiet, vaguely taunting voice that always chilled her. "Now that you've decided to stop punishing me for whatever it was I did to justify you risking your life, worrying me half to death and endangering the Court." His voice rose a little sharply, the taunting replaced completely by anger. "Well, what if home doesn't want you anymore? What if home is sick to death of your tantrums and your foolish games and idiocy?"

Her face crumpled, but she still did not look at him. "Please do - "

The backhand surprised them both. He certainly hadn't intended to hit her, but the next instant his arm had lashed out and he had felt the sting of bone against his hand. He hadn't hit her hard, nonetheless she stumbled backwards, then turned in a huddle as her shoulders began to shake.

She took a step away, but he caught her up and crushed her to his chest as she sobbed. The rain grew heavier, beating the brim of his hat down and clouding the streets darker, and he coaxed her toward the tavern and their home beneath, wrapping a sheltering arm about her shoulders as she clung to his waist.

-----

The Vicomtesse's bedroom was vast and chilly when she arrived back at the Chateau. The fire which had been left crackling for her had long since smouldered out, leaving barely warm ashes in its wake. Long shadows elongated the chairs, deepened the walls and stretched the bedposts to their very limit. Even Rossignol, whose creamy cheek rested peacefully against the satin embroidered cushions of her armchair, appeared remote in his slumber.

Rain slicked and water spotted, her silk dress made an uncomfortable slippery sound as she strode across the carpet, her breathing slightly strained, loose strands of hair clinging to her neck and tangling into her eyelashes. Setting her lantern to one side, she seated herself before the mirror of her dresser, lifting her hands to uncoil what hair remained in its setting.

They froze in midair as she caught her own eye in the mirror.

Her hair was wild and disbelieved, tossed around her face like a whore's after a night's work. Her gown, fine and beautiful at the beginning of the night, was now ruined by the furies of the Heavens. Her hands trembled as she dropped them to her face, gingerly walking them around her eyes. The dim light was causing thin creases to be shadowed in her flesh, splaying spots over her hands, lines down her neck.

A shudder coursed its way through her body violently, and she quickly pushed herself away from the dresser, scrabbling at her clothes, wrenching them from her to collapse in a sodden heap at her ankles.

Rossignol stirred and murmured against the lace ruffle of his sleeve, and she slipped quickly into her dressing room, emerging moments later in soft burgundy velvet wrapped up to her neck, combing her wet hair out over her shoulders. Rossignol rubbed a dimpled hand against his bleary eyes and quite suddenly sat up, turning to face the vision of his Mistress soft and unfocused in the frugal light. He narrowed his eyes and peered at her curiously; there was something amiss about her face. Somehow, it seemed thinner, more drawn. He was mute as she noticed his gaze and matched it with her own, widening his shining blue eyes beguilingly causing the curl of a smile to lift her mouth.

"Come with me, my Rossignol." She whispered against the stillness of the sleeping house. "Sit by me while I compose a letter."

Obediently he clambered out of the chair, hurrying to follow the swish of her skirts as she moved into her sitting room, her lone candle bending to light others as they went, until the shadows were all banished and the room throbbed with a warm, orange glow. Rossignol settled down upon his footstool and cushioned himself against her leg as she sat down, noting the way the fabric clung to her damp flesh beneath.

The Vicomtesse's throat was constricted as she opened her writing desk and readied the quill. She had won back her peace of mind, but at what cost? Claude would not be looking kindly upon her actions that day. In fact, she had no doubt but he was at this time damning her name to the most scorching levels of Hell. If there had been distance between them earlier this month, it was surely widened now. And would take a considerable feat on her part to breach.

Yet she had done the right thing. She could not have let that poem become available for public consumption, nor the letter she had written to him - and surely he would understand that? After all, his own image would suffer considerably if such a torrid affair came to light. In a way, she had done it all for his sake.

Well - not truly. But he needn't know that.

The tightness across her breast lightened, and she dipped her quill into the inkwell, her eyes glimmering faintly. First - to reassure him the events of the Court had not quelled her passion for him at all. Once communication was restabilised, a simple explanation of the Gypsy witch's interference would smooth over any misunderstandings. All that remained then was to extend a civil invitation for a weekend at the Chateau - and he would be hers once more. It was only a matter of time. She could bewitch him into her arms again easily - a scented curl of hair, a sidewards glance, the push of her breast against a pearled bodice - he had never been able to resist. And of course, never could he ignore her greatest gift -

Sneering, she brought the quill to the page:

_My dearest Claude,_

_I fear that I have somehow offended you by insisting the innocent be set free onto the city this last eve, and I wish to make amends. While I am in complete sympathy with your noble desire to rid our fair city of the vermin which infests it, I am also in empathy with your wish to always maintain true justice for those under your law. To allow those men, whom I knew to be innocent, to hang - would not only have brought damnation on my head, but by extension yours also. Acting on my word which I had learned to be false would make you as guilty as I._

_How could I let such a thing happen? Let me be damned one thousand times over, but never let my love suffer through my own folly and misguidance. I would sooner have all the curses of Hell brought down upon my head than see you, my darling, my heart's every desire, steered down the path of sin by she who should only wish to be with you on paths of virtue and purity..._

A faint sheen of smugness swept the corners of her mouth. 'What is this lamentable pack of lies, Ginevra?' she could already hear him intone. Words of passionate pleading would fall on ears deafened by self-righteousness now, affording him a few satisfied moments at his hold over now. Lamentable packs of lies would pique his curiosity, and from there...

Rossignol yawned and pressed his head into the Vicomtesse's lap, rubbing his cheek against the velvet of her gown perhaps a little too deeply. She took no note, but pressed her thighs together and continued to write on determinedly, revelling in the twisted phrases that poured forth upon the page, her heart rapidly brimming with a perverse desire embodied by her words.

-----

Miles away in Paris, far beneath the streets, Clopin and Herlikin fell as one onto their marriage bed, their fevered kisses and bitter tears all the words they needed.


End file.
